the quiet
by ease
Summary: "I'm scared," Chase breathes, his cracking voice resonating throughout the chamber. His eyes are closed, seconds away from falling under. Seconds away from the painless, blissful dark of sleep. "I've never been this scared before in my life." —And just like that, Adam's blood boils beneath his skin. / Detailed summary inside. Chase!Whump. More characters than listed.
1. PROLOGUE

**Title:** The Quiet  
 **Rating:** T+. (see trigger warnings below; also, foul language)  
 **Type:** Multi-chapter.  
 **Genre:** Hard Chase!Whump. Hurt/Comfort. The likes.  
 **Characters Involved:** Chase D.; Original Male Character (+whole Davenport family)  
 **Summary:** "I'm scared," Chase breathes, his cracking voice resonating throughout the damp chamber like a broken echo of a person that once was. Chase's eyes are closed, seconds away from falling under. Seconds away from the painless, blissful dark of sleep. "I've never been this scared before in my life." And just like that, Adam's blood boils beneath his skin. || In which: civil blood makes civil hands unclean. OR An ancient feud bred of distaste reignites in burning ire when someone wanders where they aren't supposed to. This is the story of caution thrown to the wind, where they ended up, and all that remained after all was said and done ... and how Chase, standing too selfless, stood just an inch too close to the edge. —Too close, and he found himself plunged into a world he was never meant to be a part of.  
 **Disclaimer(s):** I do not own Lab Rats, nor am I affiliated with the production in any way. This is a work of fiction created solely for enjoyment purposes, and I do not claim the characters, settings, plots, or anything else belonging to Lab Rats as my own property.  
 **Anything Else:** Several **Trigger Warnings Apply**. Including, but not limited to: Psychological torture, Physical torture, nightmares, light gore, etc. Possible _mentions_ of rape in future chapters. || Surprisingly, this is MY story, and MY interpretation of the show and its characters. If you don't find it to your personal liking, keep in mind that, like the TV show itself, Fanfiction is incredibly subjective. Don't get your bionics in a twist.  
 **Author's Note:** Hello, all! Welcome to my first attempt at a Lab Rats … torture, thing. I dunno. Any reader is always perfectly welcome to critique the story for grammar issues, character OOC-ness, and other errors – just keep in mind that angry flaming doesn't help anyone!  
In regards to the frighteningly short length to this particular chapter, please keep in mind that while this is, in part, my own personal style, it is also a very brief way for me to set up a scene that I don't want to reveal too much detail on yet. Because it is a Prologue, expect chapters of greater length in the future!  
I know this is a lot of information to take in, so with that said — _adieu_!

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

In which: A _fire_ burns, slow and steady, _devouring_ its cauldron.

* * *

 _Twelve forty-three in the morning_

 _Unknown location_

The way the liquid moves … well, you would think it alive.

Sloshing gently against the glass. Dancing against the brim, silent, tipping, tipping … _almost_ dripping _…_

… More dangerous, perhaps, are the mouths that open and whisper and softly touch tongues — the cracked lips that part and murmur tales of wretched poison. It's civil, but it isn't; well-mannered despite ugly lies and smeared laugher hidden behind every dignified nip of cherry wine.

It's civil, but it isn't _genial —_ oh, no. The only thing cordial about the affair is their liqueur, and every pretty face (every nondescript suit and tie, every self-appointed person of import) knows it to be true.

They laugh. They smile. They jest.

They snicker and they smirk and they insult.

They extend the cruelty further still, too; why limit the hostility to themselves? With an untapped reserve waiting to be drowned in a sea of wont, desire, and, best of all, obscurity?

The lot of them — the sniveling, the obese beasts at their bests — for all their faults, they're smart enough to how the world works, at least. Those that don't are long gone; forgotten, by now. Left behind years past.

You just can't make business of a person who you resent for once smearing your name under the influence, or wreaking insult upon your house on a bad social call. You forgive and forget, and if you can't, you pretend. Simple as that.

Still, this rule holds true for only _themselves_. Who's to say the man sliding a wineglass between your fingers is above that of a doormat? Or that the man handling your business affairs shouldn't be shoved aside without the least bit of courtesy?

Or that the man who happens to be wealthier than all of them combined doesn't _deserve_ whatever punishment they decide upon?

It's the justification they exercise, anyway. Maybe for the outsiders, but never for themselves. The need to justify something would imply the operation you're conducting has something wrong with it. Something immoral.

It doesn't.

They're businessmen. Entrepreneurs. Magnates hiding behind swathing curtains of alluring silver, enthralling gold.

 _Rusted._

So they keep _him_ behind a crimson curtain ("Ah! The colors _match_!" someone exclaims with glee, before the show has even begun), unclothed ("Slugs nor leeches bother with things as tedious as clothing. You'll fit right in, Worm."), and dizzy with a mulled cider (a drug, he would think) that leaves him with a sweetness clinging to his tongue. The scuffs against his elbows, the cuts and bruises painting his body in an erratic pattern of blood … he knows for certain one of his legs is broken, but at this point, he feels nothing. Entirely, blissfully numb. He thinks perhaps his wrists are bound behind him, but what can he tell in this state, in this stupor?

When the show does begin, when the crimson finally parts…

…Chase Davenport sits before dozens upon dozens of people, his knees curled into his chest, and never before in so much _pain_.

end of: 0


	2. ONE

**Author's Note:** Evening, all! Welcome to the first chapter! I hope you all enjoy it as much I as I did writing it. My inbox is always open to feedback, positive and negative alike, so feel free to drop me a line! I'd like to point out that all hours should line up almost perfectly with the timeframe; however, if it still seems off or confusing, drop a review or DM me, and I'll be glad to look into it! In addition to this, I'll add that I know zilch about computers other than how to access a Word document, so any references to tracking, hacking, or doxing are 100% fabricated and pulled out if my… erm, nowhere. If it's wrong, it's wrong – but I tried to be as vague as I could manage for this very reason. x-x Still, if you're more experienced in that department, go ahead and drop a review or DM me, and again I'll look into it!  
As a sidenote, I'd like to throw out a huge thank you to all of you who reviewed and critiqued the story. As a person who thrives on criticism, I appreciate it more than words can express. With all that being said, here's to another release!

* * *

 **ONE:** Spitting Blood

In which: A _storm_ hurls itself against the home, obsolete and _furious_.

* * *

 _ **Roughly nine hours earlier**_

 _Davenport Mansion_

It's after thirty minutes that they begin to worry.

Ten minutes is brushed off with the excuse of bad foot traffic. Twenty minutes proposes the question of, "maybe Perry kept him after?", even when the family receives no calls; no texts.

But thirty minutes— thirty minutes is troublesome, because the truth of the matter is this: it isn't like Chase to be late — not really — but maybe, if they allow themselves to hope against the ever-fulling pool of dread collecting in their guts, maybe nothing is wrong. Perhaps he's gone to see a movie with a friend, and has simply lost track of time. That would explain why his phone is turned off. Why he isn't returning any calls.

It's been almost two hours when Donald arrives home from an interview early— the only one smart enough among them to track and find Chase other than … well, Chase. Ten minutes pass in thick silence, tense and heavy and hot. Another five minutes of four people breathing down the back of his neck, squinting with glistening eyes into the strings upon strings of unfathomable code, and Donald insists that they leave him to work in peace. Reluctantly, they consent, hearts setting with unease and anxiety and apprehension, even if none of them are willing to admit it.

Ten more minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty.

An hour.

An hour and thirty minutes tick away, and Donald Davenport stands from his seat, exhausted and covered in a thin film of nerve-induced sweat.

The hopeful, pleading eyes that fix upon him drive a spear of guilt through his chest, but his face says it all, and soon the party of Tasha, Leo, Bree and Adam mirror his expression exactly.

The nail is driven infinitely deeper when Donald is forced to say on a ghost of a whisper:

"I have no idea where Chase is," he tells them, his throat lumpy, and his voice hoarse. "My program is being denied."

* * *

 _Unknown Location_

It isn't like waking the way he does normally. It's colder. The air is heavier, and stifling. His body is numb, and yet his head throbs with a dull pain, pumping steadily and harsh against his temples. He finds himself face-down on a floor of cool, smooth metal, and upon closer inspection he notices a tiny, dark pool on the ground that explains the taste of iron hanging on the edge of his tongue: blood.

After three minutes of fruitless attempts to stand, Chase raises himself into a sitting position, dizzy and groggy and nauseous. From what he can gather, the room he's in is incredibly large.

And incredibly dark.

His bionic sight helps a little, but darkness presses in at every angle. It feels as though _something_ is moving, as if he stands upon a large swaying platform, but for all Chase can tell, he can be inside or outside or in the afterlife.

That last guess steals the breath from his lungs, and he has to remind himself to _stay calm_.

Chase does not panic, but his heart _does_ hammer against his chest, an unsteady _thump_ that is barely audible over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. _Feel that?_ he tells himself. _Your heart is beating. Your blood is pumping. You're not dead._

Not yet.

A draft blows by and cools the sweat glistening against his skin, easing the way his head aches. After deeming himself stable enough for an attempt to stand, Chase raises on trembling legs, choking back the wave of nausea washing over him. He can't stop himself from waiting— waiting for lights to flicker on and blind him. Waiting for Adam to pop out of nowhere, a mile-long grin stretching across his features, jeering, "Ha! Scared you, didn't I?" Hell, at this point, Chase half-expects for a bullet to pierce his through heart at any given second, dropping him to his knees, choking blood from his lips—

But everything remains just as silent as it has been. Nothing breaks the quiet but the sound of his own irregular, heavy breath.

 _Think_ , he tells himself, desperate for some sort of balance. _How did I get here? How can I get out of this situation? Are my bionics intact_ —

His bionics. Chase hisses aloud at his own stupidity.

Within seconds, a concentrated version of his Laser Bo Staff solidifies beneath his fingers; a peaceful, breathing glow swathing the shadows before him in a blue, spectral haze. He holds the staff a good arm's length away, trying to bathe the most amount of space possible in the incandescent light.

It takes him some time, stumbling almost-blind through the dark, but eventually the cool, solid metal of a wall slides beneath his fingertips. But the brief sliver of hope blooming in his chest is immediately torn to shreds with the realization that, even standing on the tips of his toes, Chase can't reach the staff high enough to see where the ceiling and wall should meet. The thick sheet of iron recedes seamlessly into the abyss of darkness above. Opting for a different tactic, he runs his fingers along the edge of the wall and starts walking, the staff clutched tightly in his other hand.

It takes almost a full ten minutes to cover every inch of the metal perimeter, tracing his hand along each sheet of stainless-steel, before he finally comes to a chilling conclusion.

 _I'm in a box_ ,Chase thinks, a shiver threatening to crawl down his spine; _a big, metal room. And there isn't a door. How is that possible?_

It seems too bizarre; too — _ah, what was that word, again? —_ too _outré_ for it to be reality.

And then reality throws itself in his face.

Without warning, a piercing, blinding light floods into the room, and Chase falls to his knees, the metal beneath him screeching in protest to the sudden drop of weight. He fights to keep his eyelids peeled open, struggles to see _anything_ but the harsh, unforgiving bright, before something sweet replaces the iron on the edge of his tongue. It doesn't occur to him that he's falling unconscious until he's dimly aware of his head thumping against the floor, eyes blurring in and out of a hazy clarity.

It doesn't occur to him that he has no memory of winding up in the box at all, either; until the light fades, and darkness swallows him whole.

* * *

 _Present time_

 _Davenport Mansion_

In the end, it's the wait that starts to get to them; climbing with a sluggish slowness like a climax that takes too long to reach its peak. It's the wait that steals the light from Bree's eyes, piece by shattered piece, and it's the wait that silences Adam, still and quiet, like deer who's afraid even the slightest of sounds can spin them into a world of danger.

( _But Chase is already in danger_ , he had told himself dryly on a particularly bitter thought, _so what's the point?_ )

Leo is the only one amongst them who manages to retain even the slightest shred of himself— even if it's false in the way his voice cracks, or in the way his eyes have taken to the floor as of late. He babbles in fragmented strings of conversation, mentioning things like 'hope' and 'strength', before rambling himself into a quiet mumble, sometimes silencing entirely.

(And though Bree takes note of the way Leo hasn't even once mentioned Chase himself, she holds her tongue, allowing her questions to slide like burning liquor down the back of her throat.)

Tasha and Donald don't take the absence the hardest, but they take it hard. All of them do; and it hasn't yet been even a full day. ( _Two hours was enough_ , one of them says, at some point, _never mind ten of them._ )

And those ten hours should have been enough to find him. Ten hours should have been enough to have all the answers, but still Donald sits clueless, idly feeding code into a computer at roughly one-thirty in the morning. A computer that refuses to obey.

But salvation does come. Briefly.

A faint blip on the screen steals the breath from Donald's lips. He waits an hour-long second, his heart threatening to give out, and again the computer _bleeps_ , proudly announcing the location of _three_ bionic chips. He scrambles to save the data, his palms slick with sweat, before the connection breaks and the blip disappears in an anticlimactic silence.

It disappears within seconds, but seconds is all he'd needed.

Within minutes, he visualizes the information on-screen, the gears in his head turning wildly. Donald stares, daring to hope, into the large computer monitor. He clears his throat, calling for Eddy on a ghost of a breath, his knees weak.

The program has the audacity to whine, despite the urgency of the situation, claiming to be busy with some task of particular import.

Davenport doesn't ask, doesn't question what business a computer could possibly have. Instead he waves his hand in Eddy's general direction, opening his mouth to demand the computer get to work tracking the coordinates, searching possible local locations, and other tedious tasks that Donald had no time to complete himself. But his sentence is cut-off when an incessant ring echoes throughout the house, shrill and high and unwelcome.

 _Not now, not now …_ He prays, punching in a few quick lines of code. He allows his fingers to slide away from the Cyberdesk, answering the video call projected on the lab's largest screen with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The man facing Davenport is taller; broader-shouldered and clearly well-groomed, chestnut brown hair cleverly combed over a balding spot on his head. He's familiar, but not in a way that brings a smile to his face. Not even a little bit.

"Good evening, Davenport," he greets him pleasantly, but he's shrewd enough that his voice throws Donald off to the point where he can't tell if the friendly curl to his tongue is forced or rhetoric or genuine.

So Donald responds on the churning of apprehension in his gut, "What is it, Kreed?"

A pause between sentences, and Kreed Canterbury thins together his lips in a splay of a mild irritation. "I've news," he says, and the friendly edge to his tone drops like a rock. "You haven't misplaced anything as of late, have you?"

Donald stares; doesn't even bother opening his lips to reply, acidic and burning like a harsh liquor. He allows the scathing retorts to slide down the back of his throat, suddenly livid. Canterbury is a douche, yes, but the two of them are business partners. _Almost_ friends. So Donald allows him the benefit of the doubt; he forces his voice into a tremoring calm. "What do you know about Chase?" Donald demands, cold and dangerous and straight to the point.

"You can lose the sour expression, Donny. I've laid not eyes nor fingers on your son's head in ages," Canterbury assures him, offhandedly, but the tone of his voice is skewed. Davenport's blood boils beneath his skin— _that nickname_. Only one person in Donald's entire life has ever had permission to speak to him so informally, and Kreed Canterbury sure as _hell_ isn't Douglas Davenport. He forces himself down, to stay calm. For Chase's sake, if not for his own. "However… I may know the person who has. Or, should I rephrase, the _persons_."

 _The persons?_ Donald's gut twists, his chest aching. His fingers curl into small fists at his side. He'd had an idea, a suspicion, but now— he had really, really hoped the churning in his stomach had been for nothing. But Kreed confirms it, washing away one apprehension and, in doing so, replacing it by approximately _twenty-three_ of them.

"The Phoenix," Davenport breathes, his stomach churning, and without waiting for a proper affirmation (he no longer requires one), he says, "I should have known."

 _The Class of Phoenix_ , shortened to 'The Phoenix' by those who are unfortunate enough to have familiarized themselves with them, is a throng of wealthy business owners and monarchs, some of California's wealthiest dwelling amongst them; an 'over glorified tea party', as Douglas had rather taken to call it. Despite the numerous offers proposed to the brothers, neither had ever been interested in joining their ranks. Douglas simply does not care for social gatherings— the ones occupied by men who entertain themselves in petty games of fetch and drunken darts, in any case. And while Donald does of course adore the opportunity to flaunt his wealth like a jewel, the group's shady history had deterred them both.

This had been before either of them had known about the truth to their insanity, of course. Their perverse greed and desire for wealth and the horrific means they would employ to achieve their goals. It isn't so much as they are kept well-under wraps, but the simple fact that they had been kind to those they wanted amongst their ranks had been deceiving.

And the name still feels like blades against his skin, knifes digging into his back; the blood they draw elicits in the form of shudders creeping down his spine, eerie chills blooming across his clammy skin. Why him? Why Chase?

 _What have you done to get yourself thrown into this mess?_

"I hear they call themselves by 'The Class', as of late," says Canterbury, and it tears Donald abruptly away from his thoughts. Davenport returns his gaze to the screen, his jaw set. "It's strange, isn't it? After years of silence… although, I suppose it is not unlike _them_ to return in style, I would think—"

"Kidnapping my son is _not_ 'returning in style', Kreed," Donald hisses, not without venom, practically seething. "Why are you telling me this, anyway? What do you have to gain from it?"

The thing about Kreed Canterbury is that he seeks personal advancement at every step of every day, and Donald is well aware of this problematic trait. But regardless of whether or not they are something akin to friends, this is the way things are, and so Davenport has learnt to accept it. And perhaps the man has a way with words, too — _What's wrong with a little personal gain, anyway, Davenport? You of all people should understand_ — so Donald bites his tongue, and he doesn't hold his breath. After all, the balding man on the screen before him responds plainly, without a moment's pause;

"I like a good story."

And just like that, Donald resigns himself to mediocracy, rubbing his thumbs against his temples in attempt to ease the ache reeling in protest to every bad decision that has landed him in this situation, every bad decision that may just get him out of it.

"I assume that's all this call was really about?" asks Davenport, although he sounds too tired to be angry. Too anxious to sound cross.

Kreed does not miss a beat. "Yes."

"Then goodnight, Canterbury."

"Goodnight, Davenport."

—And the screen flickers to _black_.

end of: 1


	3. TWO

_Turn back; it's taboo from here on out ..._

Please understand that this story has trigger warnings **for a reason.** Although I doubt anything will become exceptionally horrific, what may be child's play to one could be a nightmare to another. I feel this secondary warning is necessary because trigger warnings are occasionally skipped over. So, _please_ bear in mind that this chapter and the ones following it may include graphic or otherwise "triggering" mentions of blood, violence, and the like. okayillstopramblingnow.

 **Author's Note:** Hello! So here it is, Chapter Two. I know it has been some time, so hopefully my writing style hasn't changed too drastically and the story is still presented pleasingly! I hope you all enjoy, and don't forget to drop a review if you have the time. A lot of things that may have been confusing in the past will (hopefully) be explained in this chapter. However, I should point out that everything past the point of the words 'Present Time' in ONE will take place _after_ the Prologue. That does, of course, include this chapter. With that said, _adieu_!

* * *

 **TWO:** Black 'n' Blue

In which: The empty air _reverberates_ with desperate, _suffocating_ silence.

* * *

 _ **eleven thirty-four in the evening  
**_ _a research facility somewhere in the Twin Peaks of San Francisco, California_

His eyes fail him when he peels them open, vision blurring in and out of a hazy focus. Chase thinks this might be the worst part of it all, because without his sight, all he has left are his ears; the ability to hear the whip crack before it lands against his spine, the breath hissing from behind his neck, the occasional shriek of pain erupting from— no, no. That— That _can't_ be _his_ voice, can it—?

And perhaps, then, his ears are stolen, too.

Chase's shoulders ache from the way his wrists are suspended above his head, chafing on a metal ring just high enough to allow his ankles to graze the polished tile floor below. His body is slumped over, naked torso caked in a thin, crusted layer of dried blood, the visible skin feverish and hot to the touch. He can barely remind himself to _breathe_.

 _In_ , out. _In_ ,out. Easy as one, two, three. _In_ , out.

Chase can feel himself trembling, and he hates himself a shred more with every tremor, every shuddering breath (the ones he does, in the end, remember to swallow). But, _shit_ , it's _cold_ , and he can't help himself. His entire body is soaking wet, churning with the blood caked against his back, tiny bumps raised on every inch of his exposed skin. He had woken to a bucket of icy water thrown over him in his slumber, drenching him in a miserable wet, his memory a confusing, blurry haze. He can remember the box (it hadn't taken him long to realise that had to have been some form of transportation, though the mystery of its sheer size remains a puzzle to him), and after the box he can remember shimmering curtains of rusted silver and tarnished gold, faces aglow and glasses of sparkling champagne swimming before his gaze. And following this he can recall windows— several of them, tinted several shades darker than necessary and surrounding him on all sides. What he could manage to see past them had been blurred, moving too quickly for him to make out anything aside from forest green and midnight blue and the occasional street lamp spilling a warm orange into what _had_ to have been a vehicle.

This point forward is distorted, a tangled web woven in pain and irregular doses of sedatives, but some of the blanks have since been carelessly filled in by hissing whispers, murmuring between men in bleached white lab coats not long after he had woken.

" _So, where'd you find him?"_

 _And it isn't the voice that jerks Chase fully awake, although spoken in the lowest of gravelly, indistinct tones. The words spoken are what pump cool blood through his veins, hammer his heart against his chest, their echo ringing in his ears. Adrenaline rushes to his fingertips, sweat pricking like a needle against his brow. If Chase can focus well enough, he can catch a faint curl of something as fresh and sweet as soft rain hanging on the edge of the air, elusive but triggering a strange memory. For a moment, he wonders if it is his imagination that it smells familiar. His mind playing tricks that it reminds him of Bree._

 _A voice responds: clearer, closer now. Still Chase does not dare peel his eyes open._

" _He was roaming," says the second individual, and it sounds feminine. Chase can practically hear the shrug ringing in her voice. "Maybe from school. Not really sure. Didn't put up much of a fight, you know? One blow to the back of 'is head and — bam! — out like a light."_

This had explained the mind-numbing pain reverberating inside his skull, at least. Suddenly Chase longs for when this had been the worst of it.

Since then, the middle-aged female (she had been referred to as _Miss Dahlia_ by one of the men in whitecoats, at some point— an improperly proper name for a woman whose speech is spoken in lazy tongue), had babbled as though Chase could understand her as well as a cat might, voice high with a thick, perverse excitement, wide green eyes slicing with an X-Ray vision into him.

 _The metal slides this time into his cheek, sharp against his skin and leaving with a stinging pain in its wake. Chase is positive the woman is simply toying with him, now; but still he does not flinch until the blades digging into his collarbones are too much for him to ignore, the pain too raw to endure through grit teeth and intervals of noisy panting alone._

" _Why are you doing this?" he can hear himself gasp some time later, fingers curling at the nothing above._

 _Chase stares as_ Dahlia's _lips tug into a frown, stoic as she absent-mindedly swipes away a thin streak of crimson pooling from the gash, red, angry on his face. "I'm delivering a message," says the woman, unapologetically shrewd and intrigued by his pain._

" _Don't shoot the messenger, boy."_

And maybe she _had_ been delivering a message, but later she had mentioned pushing him further, as if desperate to understand the physical limits of a bionic body.

 _Maybe both_ , Chase realises, grim.

There is a period of time in which Chase can recall nothing but an empty, enveloping black. He would almost place it as sleep, but it had felt different. Hollower.

Like death.

Then he had woken, his wrists bound above his head; shivering, sopping wet. And, just like that, his bionics had disappeared. Vanished from his body as though they had never even been there in the first place.

What followed had been fear. The type of fear that makes your muscles ache after being tense for so long, eyes locked wide and every part of your body rigid. He had been powerless — horrifyingly helpless.

And it had hurt. And it hurts even still.

Hours slip by with a sort of sluggish slowness that feels painful, as angry as the steel that scrapes against his jaw, his fingers. At some point, those in whitecoats discover the extent of his pain tolerance; what Chase allows them to believe to be his breaking point (meanwhile ignoring the twist in his gut, daunting, promising him he is only fooling himself into believing that this is not so).

He screams— anguished cries that resonate with a raw, hollow _realness_. No more than any average human might, perhaps, but every so often Chase screams all the same. Without fail, the room falls quiet as his episode abruptly ends, and the silence is disrupted only by the labored breath wheezing out of his body. The entire process repeats at what Chase would pinpoint at every hour or so, roughly forty to sixty minutes following the last.

 _Guess Adam was right_ , he thinks to himself sometime later, bitter. _My endurance really_ is _awful_. Oh, if Adam saw him now…

Something in his chest tightens at the thought of his brother, and its sting lingers— harsher than any blade Chase has encountered thus far.

It does not vanish when he blatantly ignores it, and the nuisance is left rooted firmly inside him still the next time he finds himself conscious.

* * *

 _ **midnight  
**_ _Davenport Mansion_

Davenport does not hold his breath, but all the same, his children return in what is, essentially, the exact manner he anticipates: exhausted, covered in soot and ash, and agonizingly, utterly empty-handed.

Donald greets the duo of Adam and Bree with sweaty palms, bags dragging under his eyes and his breath reeking of caffeine. An accumulative three days' worth of to-go cups of stale, cold coffee litter the Lab, cluttering the Cyberdesk, but neither sibling seems to pay this any mind, and Bree collapses on the nearest chair in silent, heartbreaking defeat.

They look nothing of their past selves, and Davenport almost swears he could have mistaken them for different people. He can remember their faces, determined, Bree's furious eyes burning with strength and Adam's jaw set, flexing in and out, anxious. Donald's heart had swelled upon seeing them, mission suits and all, silently anticipating orders. Ready. Unwavering.

Their faces now reflect his own of despair. Frustration. They stumble into the Lab with wilting shoulders, greatly resembling the face of Leo's irritation at being sent to bed, hours prior. From somewhere behind him, Adam grunts in anger.

The 'mission' hadn't been so much of a mission as it had been a last-ditch effort to make the most of the information they held. Davenport had them follow the coordinates he'd picked up earlier (an abandoned warehouse; surprise, surprise), but he'd been grasping at straws, and he knew it.

So his mouth never opens to ask _how things went_. The desolation in their eyes says it all.

The three of them sit between suffocating blankets of silence, avoiding gazes and tending wounds. In quiet, Adam nurses a lengthy, nasty scrape on the bridge of his left knuckles with a damp cloth (and although Davenport is bewildered as to how he would come into such harm in the first place, he would wager it likely has something to do with the way Adam's features are screwed up a great deal angrier than his sister's).

"Maybe you should both try to get some rest," Donald cannot help but to suggest at last, pretending as though he has not taken note of the way Bree's bleary gaze has begun to betray her. "It's getting late—,"

"Empty," says Adam, and his voice is so _empty_ itself it startles Davenport alarmed. "The whole place was empty."

Donald exchanges an uneasy gaze with Bree, brief, before responding, slow. "I know, Adam," he begins gently. "Whoever has Chase wouldn't want to stay put."

"If you knew that, then why would you send us at all?" Adam demands, standing. He turns, struggling to keep the angered tremor to his voice at bay. The words sting, but not as severely as Donald initially expects. Perhaps it has something to do with the way he knows Adam, and the likelihood of exhaustion, frustration, and hopelessness taking their toll on him.

Out of the corner of his eye, however, Davenport catches a glimpse of something vermillion shimmering from Adam's wrist, fabric wrinkling as he turns his body away. He opens his mouth, the first question he's thought to ask, but Bree beats him to the punch.

"Adam, what's that?" she probes, already standing to examine the crimson dangling from Adam's wrist. At first glance, Davenport had almost thought it to be blood, but the material clinging to the male's skin is filthy and freckled with ash, untidily wrapped and knotted haphazardly in his palms. Bree's fingers outstretch to grasp it, but Adam pulls his arm back, and the thick fabric ripples like rich wine as he tears it away from his sister's curious hands.

As though suddenly too preoccupied, Adam seems to abandon his anger, forgotten with ease quicker than Davenport could have hoped. Still, he pulls away from Bree, absently fingering the cloth. "It's nothing," says Adam, trying to appear as though he has done nothing wrong. Something in his voice sounds guilty, almost shameful.

"It looks like — like — like velvet," Bree says, craning her neck in an effort to see it plainly. "I thought everything at the mission site was in ashes."

Davenport takes the crimson before Adam has a chance to protest, and, indeed, the movement brings about a cloud of soot to swim into his lungs. His nose crinkles, his throat burning with the sudden, suppressed desire to cough. "Adam, why did you take this?" he asks, his voice a bit hoarser than he would have liked.

Adam's face falls, uneasily staring at the toes of his black mission boots. "I don't know," he admits at last. It is a phrase he has grown comfortable with, pulls on like a T-shirt, but tonight he mumbles the words all the same. "I don't know. I guess it just — felt important."

And, just like that, Davenport understands.

It had been the only thing not burned to ashes upon their arrival at the warehouse. It had withstood the fires left behind in an attempt to cover up every trace of _what has to be_ the Class's existence. Even to Adam's simple headed brain, he can tell it represents something he subconsciously craves.

Idle in Davenport's hands, Adam steals the fabric back. It reminds him of hope.

It reminds him of Chase.

* * *

 _ **sunrise  
**_ _Davenport Mansion_

The call arrives, not unlike the first, without warning; when Donald is between swatting Leo away, coding desperately behind a screen, and dozing off at likely the most inappropriate of moments (largely, the sound of his own snoring jerks him awake, but once or twice Tasha has to shake his shoulders in order to get his bleary eyes open). This moment in particular, he'd been swallowing large swigs of black coffee, allowing the bitter, lukewarm fluid to retreat down the back of his throat. The second the droll, quiet morning _hum_ resonating throughout the Lab is devastated, Donald chokes.

As quickly as he can manage, Davenport sops up the damp spill from his white shirt. He runs a hand through his head of oily hair, rattled, then, with trembling fingers, answers the call.

It is not Kreed, whom he has come to expect. The faces spread out before him on _glorious HD_ are considerably younger models, all with tan, unblemished skin, rows of sparkling white teeth hiding behind tight-lipped smiles. There must be at least a dozen of them — and though Davenport fails to spot a single recognisable face, he knows at once who is on the screen before him now.

What remains of the Class of the Phoenix stares at him, cold. In the center of the screen, the eldest of them sits, legs crossed, in a fine leather chair, his gaze slicing ice directly into his. He does not announce himself, and Davenport doesn't bother to ask for a proper introduction.

 _What have you done with Chase?_ , he means to say, his tone demanding, unwavering from the moment his eyes fall upon them. But his tongue trips on the name and, instead, the words that fall clumsily from his lips are: "What have you done?"

Silence. For a while, Davenport receives only silence, his heart thumping steadily in his ears, but eventually he is given a response. A hoarse, trembling laugh of a response, but a response all the same.

The greasy, stout man in the armchair chokes out a laugh that echoes over the speakers, crackles like static in the air, before falling quiet. No one aside from him moves a muscle, but the man wriggles uncomfortably in his seat. If he squints, Donald can make out the sweat clinging to his glistening face — and, now that he has noticed, several of the Class members seem tense, somehow, wringing their palms or chewing their lips. One of the men furthest from the screen coughs, and it seems to jerk the unnamed chief guide back into reality.

He clears his throat. Once. Twice. Then, skin a moonbeam-stained shade of pale, the man clasps his fingers together in his lap, and Donald can see him swallow thickly before he speaks: "We have… your son, uhm… Chase, is it? …"

Davenport can feel his fingers twitch at his sides. Aside from the absolute revulsion that is this situation, something about the Class seems undeniably off, so rather than unleash his fury upon a cracked flat-screen monitor and a pile of broken inventions tucked away into a corner, he somehow manages to steel himself. His chest aches.

"Why are you doing this?" Davenport tries again, and his voice no longer sounds as desperate, the tremor to his tone gone. _Davenport: 1._

The man, to his absolute, sheer luck, does not beat around the bush, although Davenport can almost anticipate his response exactly; _Money, Donald. Why else?_

With little warning, a series of numbers appears in the lower half of the screen; a steady, lengthy pattern of zeros and commas winding before his gaze that steals the breath from his lungs, wrenches his gut. If he hadn't felt sick to his stomach already, Davenport certainly feels nauseous now.

A ransom. There is no reason for him to be surprised, but all the same, it comes as a shock.

"It's the money or the boy, Davenport," says the man, quietly. He wipes his palms on the thighs of his pressed trousers, presses the cuffs of his suit against his temples. "We're — We've decided to give you a generous twenty-four hours to make a decision."

"You people can't be serious—," he chokes out, and suddenly Davenport feels lightheaded. Their faces are grim. Greedy. _Apprehensive_. He opens his mouth to demand a price more reasonable — to demand an explanation, _anything_. But before either party can utter even another word, the call ends, and its abrupt close has a silent voice that screams over the lump in Davenport's throat.

 _We will destroy you_ , it sings. _We've won._

end of: 2


	4. THREE

**Author's Note:** Hello! Welcome to the Third(Fourth?) chapter of The Quiet. If there is any chapter I am nervous about publishing, it is this one. This chapter will develop with a slightly different… atmosphere?... than the others will (including chapter Four). I genuinely hope this change will be received well, and hopefully it isn't too drastic. The length is a bit unnerving as well, but that may not be such a bad thing, either. Regardless of my rambling, please do enjoy!

* * *

 **THREE:** Broken Bones

In which: A veil of shimmering _shadows_ masks the pressing _dark_.

* * *

 _ **ten forty-two in the morning  
**_ _Davenport Mansion_

Donald Davenport's shoulder aches as he presses the phone against his upper neck, his hands working to feed himself breakfast. The warmth emanating from a white ceramic mug in his left hand nearly scalds his fingers, and he shoves a half-eaten glazed donut into the trash, shakes the pain from his flesh, to ease the heat searing his skin.

 _Tea_ , he curses. He can hear his wife's voice in the back of his head, feel her gentle fingers sliding the steaming concoction into his hands:

 _It'll be good for you_ , Tasha had promised. The smile adorning her lips had seemed genuine enough, but something about it had been poignant still. _It'll soothe your anxiety._ Davenport cannot tell for sure if it is working, although he does find himself wishing, not for the first time, that it were coffee burning his skin instead.

"Davenport? Hello?"

With his free hand, Donald presses his fingers against the elevator pad as he enters, sliding the phone from his shoulder with an obscene mutter beneath his breath. "I'm here, Kreed," he says, squeezing his eyes closed as the floor beneath him rises up, up, up… Davenport's headache again throbs from behind his temples, pounding against the inside of his skull.

"I trust you'll follow my advice, then?" he can hear Kreed Canterbury say. The voice crackling out of the cellphone's poor, cheap speakers is muffled, but not severely enough that Davenport cannot easily distinguish the frustration seeping into Kreed's tone. To all his credit, however, Donald had not expected Canterbury to be so invested in his son's life. From the moment he'd been informed about the situation, Kreed has lately been almost as nervy as Davenport himself. "You cannot expect me to help you if you do not understand how waiting is in our best interest, here, Donald."

"What?" Davenport freezes, his fingers inches away from the elevator release. Although his mind is a dozen other places at once, this part of the conversation he hears, and he stops, frigid, in his tracks. Had he caught hat correctly? "You want me to — to — to wait?" he stutters, downright bewildered. It is not the approach he had intended to take. He had long-since decided he does not need twenty-four hours, and what choice does he have but to be so brash? Davenport is ready to hand everything over now — his home, his business, his success. He would ruin himself in a heartbeat to save any one of his children's lives.

What he does not expect is for Kreed to disagree. How could a man who has spent his entire life coveting, envious of Davenport Industry's success, reject the chance to reclaim the title of wealthi _est_? It feels wrong. Unrealistic; odd, out-of-place.

Davenport fails to realise how fiercely he is grinding together his teeth until his jaw begins to ache. Already sliding again into the familiar habit of tuning out Kreed's voice, he exits the elevator into his living room, sparing a wave in the direction of Adam, Bree, and Leo, who, wisely, seem to have agreed to Tasha's demands of a proper breakfast. Davenport himself reaches for the small bottle of ibuprofen on the kitchen counter. _The breakfast of champions._

 _It isn't like you to rush into things, Donnie._

"Look, I can't hold off on making any decisions much longer than a few hours," Davenport caves, and he is given the distinct impression he'd interrupted Canterbury mid-sentence; something about the pair being _perfectly capable_ of locating Chase themselves, as though that plan has been working so well thus far. "Anything Chase is put through before then is on your head."

Davenport ends the call before he can receive the full extent of Kreed's sputtering, livid fury, turning to three out of his four children. Both Bree and Leo stare, wide, expectant eyes fixed squarely upon him. Adam's gaze falls instead to his bowl of cereal, chewing a great deal slower than he'd been when Davenport had first entered the room.

"Uhm, Mr. Davenport, who was that?" asks Bree, the first of them to gather enough courage. She pushes her meal of stale, buttered toast aside, although it had clearly been untouched to begin with.

"That was Kreed," Donald responds, nearing them. His eyes are beginning to strain beneath the oppression of exhaustion, and finally he caves into a seat at the bar. "He wants me to wait before considering this deal."

Adam stops in-between spoonfuls of cornflakes, and the cereal drops into his bowl of milk with an unattractive _plop_. "What?" he demands, finally engaging in the conversation. "Why would he want that?"

Although Davenport can only roll his shoulders in response, Leo visibly stiffens. "Because he's a sociopath?" he asks, like it were a guess pulled out of thin air. It sounds as though he is only half-joking.

"I can't say for sure," says Davenport, slowly. "but it seems strange to me, even for him."

"What do you think it means?" asks Bree, and Donald shakes his head with a deliberate sluggishness that teases a frown from each of his children's lips.

"I think," he begins, at last, staring with irritated discontent into his mug of steaming brew. "I'm going to need a _coffee_."

* * *

 _ **approximately midday  
**_ _a research facility somewhere in the Twin Peaks of San Francisco, California_

Time seems to stand still.

Occasionally, Chase is able to catch glimmers of golden watches strapped to the wrists that push blades into his skin, drive water down his throat. He tries to calculate roughly the points in which men reeking of antiseptics and sanitizers seep into the room, but every day it seems more sporadic, even more methodically random than the last, and inside his white room there are no windows. (Any attempt to accurately schedule his own rest is entirely worthless, lost between unrequited doubts of _is that three thirty-four in the evening, or the morning?_ , and _was I this exhausted the last time they came?_ )

He wakes often to crackling laugher— smiles sharper than the knives that tear into his fingers, his neck. They grin with eager fascination, scribble notes by lean, sloppy wrists, while other whitecoated men look on with utter disinterest, cold shadows peering out from behind walls of clipboards and polished black shoes. Chase can recall slurring to Dahlia, once or twice in a semiconscious stupor, about the time of day, but he had long since shifted back into a deaf comatose before he'd received any sort of wry response from the woman. The smiles predictably fade, captivation soon chipping away to boredom; and, not unlike abandoning prey just before death as a final disgrace, they leave him.

Chase can feel his body ache for rest, hear the moans slip by bruised lips each and every time he is shaken awake, pricked and prodded into sore reality. Hands rough against his skin, his own fingernails digging into his palms, the thick iron of blood plaguing his tongue. It is as though his supersenses never left, but frequently the world enveloping him is a fuzzy, blurry, muted haze. Amplified in every rich, vivid detail, though distant beyond words.

So the day(night?) the alarms wake and force him immediately into a cold panic, they do not come as anything but a vague, sticky shock.

Dull, rolling thunder echoing behind thick slates of glass, heavy lids giving way to weary hours of a mossy green. Blaring, deafening, flashing alarms. In the pitch-black, crimson light floods into the cell, pooling on the white tile-lined floor beneath him.

Chase does not have time to digest the situation in full, because before he can brace himself, the door is thrust open by fingers carrying tremors and trembling keys, and the thick silhouettes of seven-ish broad-shouldered men file inside.

 _A rescue._ Relief floods to his toes, trickles down the back of his neck. Chase's gaze flickers from face to face as they surround him in an untidy semi-circle, his vision slowly adjusting to dark uniforms and slanted jaws and flexing, tense muscle. They advance silently towards him, easily closing the distance of the cramped cell within a matter of seconds, their backs against the only set of doors in the room. A sliver of white catches his eye, and Chase strains to make out the all-caps text on the closest man's torso:

C. C.:  
 **SECURITY UNIT**

He can feel his heart seize in his chest. _Not a rescue_ , it twists.

Chase opens his mouth to scream, but the voice that is drowned out by thunderous sirens does not register as his own.

 *** / * / ***

 ** _an hour later  
_** _Unknown Location_

Not for the first time, Chase regains consciousness in a box of aluminum. Cool metal presses against his left cheek, the empty room swallowing him in an entirely new world of _dark_.

It is silent; no droll hum resonating from beneath his feet, no screeching of tires, or groaning of metal on metal. His ears ring, but without his enhanced vision, without his bionics, there is nothing. Chase pulls himself upright, nowhere near any desire to stand. His flesh stings and burns and every muscle begs for him to stay, still, and do nothing but wait in the cool, stale air, and so he waits.

And waits.

It feels as though hours have passed when Chase thinks to himself, _how long has it been really?_ , and he almost speaks aloud if only to hear his voice not choked from his breath or mumbling numb questions, but something about the dry, empty room makes him reconsider. Twenty minutes, maybe. Thirty.

For the first time in days, time does not stand still. Instead it drags along, second by second, bit by bit. It is not until roughly an hour passes that Chase begins to believe this to be his death.

 _We have learnt all that we have needed to learn_ , someone hums. He can feel the voice on the back of his neck, breathing heat down his spine. A shiver tears through his body as teeth scrape against his ear. _And now you will rot in this room, Chase_ —

Before panic has even a chance to swallow him whole, before the dark drives him truly mad, a familiar screech of metal breaks the silence, and by pieces light floods and floods inside. Chase squeezes his eyelids closed in a futile attempt to block out the white that peels easily past them, and he is forced to tear himself away in order to open them again.

There is no one inside aside from him, but he hadn't needed the bright to know that.

Shoulders heaving, Chase waits until his retinas have stopped burning to see the back of the metal room (significantly closer than he'd imagined), and slowly he turns to the glittering, golden glow of the outside world.

The silhouette of a young man leans against the opening of the room(truck?), and although Chase cannot make out his features, he does not seem particularly threatening (nor welcoming, for that matter). Neither-friend-nor-foe is tall, and he hovers above, strategically blocking the fiercest of the light from Chase's vision. He waits patiently from a safe distance, arms crossed as Chase gingerly pulls himself to his feet.

"Have you finished yet?" he asks at last, and his voice is somewhat higher than Chase had anticipated. The male sounds young, but as his eyes adjust, Chase begins to recognise him as older. He pins him to be around Adam's age, and, indeed, the stranger's body stature unnervingly rivals that of his brother's. The boy gestures for Chase to walk outside, and he takes a careful, deliberate step forward.

"You're letting me go?" Chase asks, shaken by the way his own voice sounds so uncharacteristically pathetic, quivering and doubtful. Still, he can feel the way his eyes narrow, suspicious, cautious; inching near in a poor excuse of a defensive stance, but a defensive stance nonetheless.

If the male cares that Chase's hoarse voice trembles, or that his eyes squint, or that his bones ache to lower on guard, he does not show it. "Are you insane?" is all he snorts in response, but he turns and allows Chase to walk freely behind him, however sluggishly.

As he approaches the lip of the light pooling at his feet, Chase cannot help but to expect to find towering prison walls, barbed-wire fences and rolling, cracking thunder outside. Stone-grey bricks, or barren trees. He can picture German shepherds snarling at his heels, even. What he does not expect is what faces him instead as he steps outside the grumbling, massive delivery vehicle.

Before him is an enormous, grand manor, bejeweled by tall diamond-clear windows, sparkling under the sun. The grass beneath his feet is a rich shade of green, and faultlessly trimmed hedgerows line the gardens of the immense grounds around him. From high overhead, mockingbirds warble and chatter, chasing themselves in the dense canopies of trees above. It feels like a scene out of a romance novel; even the sky is immaculate, a flawlessly blue melting pot of soft down and curling, coiling clouds.

"Imposing, isn't it?" says the male, and the sound of his voice shatters Chase's dream-like stupor. He is almost tempted to respond, but before he can form the proper words on his tongue, he is saved when the stranger casually continues. "Only the grandest of homes for the _crème de la crème_ of business. Although, I suppose if your father truly is who I've been told, then you're likely accustomed to such lavish treatment." For such pretentious speech, the wide grin on the boy's lips is childishly sloppy, and Chase is reminded of that woman— Miss Dahlia. _What's the matter?_ , the Cheshire smear taunts. _Not so much lately, huh?_ The male's voice is nails dragging down a chalkboard, but he seems to adore the sound if it.

Chase's fingers curl into fists at his sides, knuckles burning like white flame. "Why am I here?" he demands, and he is forced to remind himself against heaving a sigh of relief when his tone leaves his lips precisely as he intends: cold, curt, challenging. _I-could-tear-you-in-half_.

The male lifts his hands in mock-defense, much cooler, much calmer than Chase would have liked him to be. "My purpose is to make sure you get to the boss safe and sound, and little else — smooth ride to the grounds, though, right? — Whatever scheme you're concerned with is between you and him."

A million questions swarm up in his head, but before Chase can decide on one to ask, he is struck with a sudden thought, and he doesn't move an inch.

He can run. Even without his chip, with a good enough head start, he is confident he could make it to the edge of the gardens before the strange male could catch up. Chase squares his jaw, his calculative eyes gliding like ice over every possible escape route. He could outrun him, surely, easily even—

The boy must notice Chase's wandering gaze, because before he has a chance to properly map out a plan, the thought is immediately ruined. "You can try to escape if you'd like," the male says, lifting his brows in an uneasily familiar way. "but there's a good five units of security just waiting for us inside. If you truly think you'll be safer with them, then… by all means, Davenport." He steps aside, arms spread, daring Chase to test his luck. The sound of his surname makes him internally cringe, as though the title uncomfortably belongs to someone else. The male before him fails to detect Chase's disquiet, merely drops his arm to his sides. There is a brief, silent pause before he says quietly, "We aren't the bad guys, here." From somewhere nearby, a squirrel crossly chitters for the trespassers to leave, and with little warning the stranger begins the winding passage toward the great manor.

Chase stares in disbelief, left behind on the stone path, before casting a final rueful glance towards the shrubbery adorning the opposite ends of the lawn. The word _dubious_ barely seems to scratch the surface of Chase's utter lack of trust, but in the end, though he can feel himself swallow his pride its entire way down his throat, finally he succumbs to the exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, and he allows himself to be led into the home.

What lies inside the manor is nearly as resplendent as its exterior; before him, elaborate staircases, lined by plated silver and genuine gold, wind on opposite sides as they stretch towards the sunlight spilling in at every angle. An intricate chandelier dangles above, unlit. For a moment, Chase thinks that if the situation were not so dire, he would have enjoyed to stay, sit, to allow the sunlight to seep beneath his skin. All at once, Chase becomes vaguely conscious of his grimy, bloody self, and he sinks the chewed edges of his nails into his flesh — _am I dreaming?_

To Chase's surprise, the male begins up neither staircase, and instead he leads him down a series of corridors, cool tile following beneath his bare toes as they proceed. Honestly sterling artwork adorns the eggshell walls: skillful paintings of women in large white dresses, small children playing in a field, an empty ballroom lit by lavender candles. A few faces feel vaguely familiar, but aside from a barely-there cinch of his brow, none of the images strike Chase as particularly enlightening. He continues blindly forward, and every step he feels an inch closer to his own death. It seems too much like a maze, and for a fleeting moment Chase thinks perhaps they'll soon leave him alone, leave him to hopelessly wander the mansion like a lab rat to food.

Just as quickly, however, Chase is led around another corner, another corridor, and he stands dead in his tracks.

Each side of the passage is lined by nameless, tall men; every inch covered by guards in heavy dark garments, faces concealed behind black-as-night visors, weapons folded neatly across their chests. Chests that boldly display a block-letter warning, "C.C.: SECURITY UNIT". Chase can feel his fingers twitch, feel his stomach tighten in the same familiar way when something is wrong.

He'd almost forgotten about the boy until he speaks; "Relax, Chase, _relax_ ," he says. He looks as though he is exasperated, tired of Chase's distrust, of his suspicion. Chase himself cannot help but to feel incredibly unsympathetic. "We saved you, remember? No one here would hurt you, so relax."

Chase cannot discern whether or not it is a lie. He'd been trained, after years of conditioning, to identify liars for what they are, almost without fail. But between the pain rippling across his skin, hunger gnawing at his stomach, and dizziness clouding his vision, for the life of him, Chase cannot tell.

Once again, the stranger continues on before Chase has a chance to devise a proper response, but he does not move forward. "Follow this hall, then enter the second to last door on your right," he says, casually glancing towards his polished silver wristwatch. Chase means to catch its time, but the male moves his arm away too quickly, and all at once he begins to leave him behind. "I'll come for you when you're all finished." By the time Chase manages to choke out a livid, "Finished with _what_?", the boy is gone, disappearing behind another corner, another corridor.

Defeated, Chase begins forward at a pace that seems less than an inch a minute. He can't keep himself from bracing his entire body, waiting for someone to step from the security line, latch his meaty palms around Chase's thin arm, calling; _"No, wait! This isn't the guy. This kid's supposed to be six feet under by now, remember? —"_ But not a single one of them so much as blinks at Chase as he advances. They stare stoically ahead, like toy soldiers dipped in black paint; eerily uniform, eerily static. His body moves, slowly, of its own accord.

The door, when Chase finally reaches it, is a sound white oak, the knob just as polished as everything else in the manor. For a fleeting moment, he considers the possibility the door will be locked — _"Just kidding,"_ the boy would return, laughing. _"We'll take you home now."_ Or, worst scenario, _"Did you think I was serious? Did you actually think we were here to save you?"_ Chase can feel his heart pound against his chest, feel his palms go slick. A nearly overwhelming desire to scream, to bolt, suddenly possesses him. If the door doesn't open, Chase decides then that he'd go down swinging.

The knob turns with ease beneath Chase's trembling fingers, and a breath of relief escapes him.

The door opens to a large washroom, elaborate as he's come to expect. Several marble sinks with golden spigots line the walls, along with, most notably, half-a-dozen or so _showers_. Realisation dawns, and at once he understands what he's expected to do. Approaching them, Chase catches a glimpse of his own reflection in one of the floor-length mirrors, and a shiver tears through him at the sight of himself: peppered black and blue, blood flaking from his pale skin. His back, he can only assume, is in worse condition. Though his muscles ache at the thought of a hot, soothing shower, Chase forces himself to think for a moment, alone in the quiet room.

First and foremost, he has no plan whatsoever. Not a fibre in his being trusts those around him, but ultimately, he is trapped, and he knows it. The men just outside are loaded with technology Chase can only begin to imagine, and, as far as he can see, there are no other exits to the lavatory (a door or the opposite end of the room turns out to be a closet, full of soft towels and fresh socks and clean drawers, but no freedom). To top it all off, and as much as he hates to admit it (even to himself), Chase can tell his body is not in fighting condition. If there is indeed ever a time to act, that time is not now. Not yet. In the meantime, Chase isn't about to pass up the opportunity to clean himself up, to relax his bones long enough for at least a chance to breathe.

Turning the first spigot to pump full heat, Chase sheds himself of his clothing and sets to work scrubbing the thick layers of trauma from his skin.

* * *

 _ **concurrent  
**_ _Davenport Mansion_

"What are you doing?"

The sound of Adam's groggy voices stops Donald's heart dead in his chest. The lab had been so silent, and he hadn't heard him enter until his mumbling voice was just behind him. His fingers pause over the Cyberdesk, turning to warmly greet his eldest son with the ghost of a smile.

"Thought you and Bree were getting some rest upstairs," he says, abandoning his work for the moment. By the look of his disheveled appearance, Adam likely had been. His bleary eyes still glaze slightly over, but they twinkle with interest at Davenport's work.

"She crashed on the couch, but I've slept enough," he insists, allowing his eyes to filter over the Cyberdesk and its surface. "What is all this? I thought we were empty-handed."

Donald shakes his head, deciding to return. He types in a few strings of code, makes a few adjustments, then sits back. "I'm just checking his chip GPS signal again. It's unlikely, but …" His voice withers away, unsure of how to gently finish the sentence. _… But it's all I can do. It's all I know to do anymore._ How could he admit he truly is helpless, that this is their last resort? How could he tell Adam that his baby brother could be gone?

"But it's worth a shot," finishes Adam, and for a fleeting moment, Davenport can see a flicker of hope spring to life on his face.

Donald swallows around the thick knot in his throat. "Yeah, Adam," he says. "It's definitely worth a shot."

"Well, what are you waiting for then, tiny man?" he teases. "Type!"

For the first time in a long while, Davenport looks up to find Adam grinning — _actually_ smiling, however halfheartedly — and at once he feels a great weight lift from his chest. Despite himself, a hint of a genuine grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, and Donald immediately sets to work. With some form of newfound drive, it takes only ten patient minutes, and soon he pulls up the holographic map of their blinking, winking bionic blips.

Adam's chip is nearly covering Bree's, but the two crimson dots proudly announce the two of them, safe and sound at DAVENPORT, HOME.

There is a third.

It doesn't take more than a fraction of a second for both of them to notice, and Davenport can feel his heart flutter in his chest. Adam must feel the same because he stares, wide-eyed, and for a moment Donald isn't sure if he's hearing his son's heart thump or his own.

A second later, however, and Davenport's heart stills. He stares at the blip, and all at once a wave of realisation crashes upon him. He can feel his skin blanch, every part of his body beginning to sweat. His head begins to feel considerably lighter before Adam pulls him back to the present.

Beside him, Adam squints at the dot of colour just the same, but he frowns, failing to recognise the location. "Mr. Davenport, where is he? Where's Chase?" His voice is ecstatic, eager, but the moment his eyes fall upon Davenport's face, fear seeps onto his tone. " _What's_ …?"

Donald Davenport cannot force his voice to work until a full twenty-minute period has passed.

* * *

 _ **approximately thirty minutes later  
**_? _Manor_

After cleaning himself from head-to-toe at least three times over, Chase could feel a new energy flow to the tips of his fingers, a new calmness settling in his mind. He doesn't have bionics at the moment — so what? No chains, merely vague pain, and trust. They trust him not to run, surely. He can escape. He can feel it. Telling himself he'd bolt at his first chance gives him a rejuvenating sense of purpose as he finishes under the warm rush of water.

It merely takes one glance towards his pile of grimy, bloody sweatpants for Chase to understand that he has no desire to pull them back on. He wraps one of the white towels around his body instead, careful of his wounds. It feels as soft as a cloud against his beaten skin.

To his surprise, a folded heap of clothing already sits waiting for him, and after drying himself entirely he pulls the garments on with ease. Chase cannot decide whether it is pleasant or eerie how perfectly they fit.

Oddly, the clothing is remarkably akin to his bionic uniform at home with thick, thermal sleeves (at once he realises that this is the warmest he's been for as long as he can remember), semi-fitted sweats and a protective front. Rather than the familiar black-red-white colours adorning the labels, however, the new outfit follows the scheme of everything surrounding him; solid grey, minute white detailing. A sliver of gold crosses his torso. For a fleeting moment, Chase wonders if he'll someday conform to that colour scheme, too; he can see his skin fading to a polished ivory white, a moonbeam-stained grey. He can picture the stark-blue contrast of his veins beneath his pale wrists, like a monster out of the vampire flicks Bree would sometimes watch late at night—

Chase's eyes dart to the floor as if on instinct, and a silent relief trickles through him at the site of his toes, glowing red from the heat that had poured over them. _Not a vampire yet_ , he thinks proudly to himself. For a moment, the picture of Bree, cooing in awe at an attractive man on screen, comes flooding back, and suddenly Chase's gut is in knots.

A quiet knock wrapping against the oak door startles him out of his thoughts, and, after a final breath of the warm, humid air, Chase opens it to the face of his initial receiver. The male whistles.

"Someone cleans up nicely," he says, then adds, "You look like a brand-new person." Chase could not have said it better himself. For the first time, he takes in the male's appearance: curling, almond-brown hair, flashy ocean blue eyes. Nothing in particular stands out about him, but if he had been dressed so impeccably before, Chase hadn't noticed. Something about his own lack of scrutiny bothers him, but before it has a chance to get to him truly, the boy smiles. Actually smiles. "The Director will now see you."

With that, Chase is led throughout another brief tour of the manor, full of twisting turns and long, sweeping halls. His stomach sinks a bit more with every step, but the distance is not terribly long, and soon enough they arrive at another door. The male knocks, and, although he receives no response, he pushes it open and gestures for Chase to enter. "Have a seat," he says. "He'll be here shortly."

Chase is almost tempted to ask for a name, but before he has a chance, the door closes with a sharp _click_ , and once again Chase finds himself locked inside a large room, alone. Against his better judgement, he obeys, allowing himself to sink into a fine leather chair.

Aside from a long, carved wooden table in its center, the room itself is no different from the rest of the home — off-white walls, shimmering lights. Not so much as a tuff of the carpet beneath his feet is out of place. Upon closer examination, he finds the table is a pristine dark wood, incised with intricate artwork of round apples and bubbling grapes, pumpkins and gourds and a few others Chase himself cannot identify. Suddenly he longs for the infinite database of knowledge that dwelled within his own head only days ago.

Days. _Has it been only days?_

He is given little time to truly ponder this question before his attention is torn from the table, his breath stolen from his lungs. The door opens, and from it, an older man enters, followed by several chefs brandishing dozens of silver platters, piled high with a wide array of foods. Before his eyes, the servants place trays upon trays on the table surface; plates overflowing with greasy bacon, bowls of scrambled eggs, saucers of sausage. Directly in front of him, soft and light, a stack of fluffy biscuits lay waiting. The man sits, and the small army of chefs leave the two of them alone.

"Shall we dine?" he asks, gesturing to the plethora of food spread out against the table. No sooner than Chase can respond, the man casually begins slathering marmalade onto a piece of toast, oblivious to Chase's blank stare. "What can I say? I'm a breakfast man, myself."

"I'm not hungry," Chase says flatly, ignoring the gnawing in his stomach. It isn't the entire truth, but something about the man – about the whole situation – makes the little food in his stomach (a handful of crackers, a stale slice or two of bread given to him one particularly brutal evening) … churn with nausea.

The man disregards him, waving a knife in the air. "Nonsense, I'm sure you haven't eaten in days. Have a drink, at least —,"

Chase clenches his teeth in an effort to keep himself calm, to keep himself from lashing out against the mind games and lack of clear answers. "I'm. Not. Hungry," he grits out, repeating each syllable in a forced cool.

The man frowns, allows his silverware to fall to his plate, although he appears primarily unscathed. "Straight to business, then," he says, quietly sliding the breakfast platter aside. "I'm sure you have several questions. Please feel free to ask away."

"Who are you?" demands Chase, his dark eyes wasting no time to narrow. His jaw flexes in and out.

The man only folds his hands neatly in his lap, relaxed in contrast to Chase's tense form. "I'm the person who orchestrated this whole rescue ordeal," he explains.

A headache reels in confusion at the back of Chase's head. "Why?" he asks, bewildered. "Are you a friend of Mr. Dav —," he begins, but his voice breaks off. _Are you a friend of Mr. Davenport's?_ , he means to ask, but he swallows the question, thick in his throat. Mentioning him by name, he realises, could likely be a bad idea. Chase clamps his mouth shut.

If he notices the hesitation, Mr. Suit-and-Tie doesn't comment. "Why? Because I'd like to make you an offer, Chase." He leans forward on the edge of his seat, continuing. "I'd like you to work with me. And, I'd like to return this." The man pauses. He produces a compact square of metal from his pocket and sets it face-up on the table, and for a moment the piece is so small it takes Chase a faltering second to discern what it is exactly.

His chip. His bionic chip.

Chase rises immediately to his feet. "Why do you have this?" he demands, his blood running cold. _How do you know?_

"Relax," the man says, lifting his hands. "It's yours. We just need to agree to some terms."

"What terms?" asks Chase coldly, his heart thudding against his chest. He can feel the palms of his hands slicken, his temple pricking with sweat.

Any casualty or charm slips away from the man's features, and he frowns, solemn. "You, Chase. I want to know more about you and your kind." He lifts a tall glass of orange juice to his lips, his voice smooth and calm, a clear attempt to alleviate the hostility quickly igniting in Chase's gaze. "Do you even know how extraordinary you are?"

Deliberately, Chase's knees weaken, and slowly he returns to the chair. His heart aches in his chest, mind fogging. In an effort to catch a breath, he allows himself a moment to swallow back a few drafts of crisp, cool water, his fingers trembling as he places the glass again on the table. "You … ," Chase unsteadily begins, but all at once, too many questions threaten to devour him, and not one of them seems to be able to properly finds its way to his voice. _You … would return my chip? You want to work with me?_

What leaves his lips, however, is not a question at all. His tongue suddenly dries up, his throat threatens to close, and all Chase can manage is two thick words: "… are lying."

 _Wrong answer._

The man's face twists in anger, in shock, in _fury_. A suppressed rage flickers across his features, and immediately his expression changes entirely. "Excuse me?"

"You're lying," Chase repeats, his tone significantly steadier. Adrenaline rushes through his fingertips, his chest, his toes; once again he stands, accusatory. "Why did you avoid my question? How did you get my chip?" _Why is security swarming this place? Why can't I see my father? Who was the boy from earlier?_

 _Why do you look so familiar?_

"Settle down, Chase," the man orders through grit teeth, rising to meet him at eye-level. His face pales considerably, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of events.

"No," Chase outright refuses, his suspicion only flaring. "No. I want answers." From behind him, the door suddenly swings open, and two others in security uniforms march warningly inside. At once, Chase whips around to the face of the suited man, fully livid. "This whole thing has been a set-up!"

The man makes a snorting noise, shaking his head. His demeanor suddenly shifts. "There are things you don't understand, boy," he spits. "Who are you to disrespect me?"

"Who are _you_?" Chase repeats, the sound of blood rushing to his ears. One of the guard's large hands wraps stiffly around his right shoulder, and for the first time in his life, Chase cannot remember the proper way to breathe.

 _In through the nose, out through the mouth. Right-_

With Chase's arm now safely pinned behind him, the man stumbles slowly back into his seat. He lifts a trembling handkerchief to his temple, dabbing away specks of perspiration. "I'd hoped you could cooperate," he says, although he sounds more irritated than apologetic. The man then stiffens, addressing the guards. "Gentlemen, kindly escort Mr. Davenport downstairs, to the basement."

The guard nearer to Chase nods his head, although Chase remains eerily calm. He eyes the man coolly, allowing himself to be ungently guided aside.

"Of course, _Mr. Canterbury_ ," the guard says, and Chase swears aloud because he is certain he has heard the name before.

Kreed Canterbury's lips pull nervously into a sort of unpleasant smile, and his body visibly relaxes.

"See you soon, Chase Davenport."

* * *

 _ **roughly ten hours earlier  
**_ Canterbury Corp. research facility

 _We will destroy you_ , it sings. _We've won_.

When the call ends, the large flat-screen before them flickering to an empty black, the eldest of the Class turns so as to no longer see his reflection in the monitor. Irritably, the stout man swipes the clammy palms of his hands onto his pressed trousers, steeling himself silently before the other members. His shaky breath suddenly leaves his lips in a trembling guffaw, triumphant laughter bubbling from somewhere inside his chest.

"We've done it!" he cries at once, gleefully throwing his hands together. "We've finally done it. And that— those incessant brothers! They'll be _ruined_. All for some lousy teenager with an attitude problem." The oily man grins, satisfied, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. A few of the other members begin, gradually, to loosen their own lips into uncomfortable grins, identical daggers lurking behind polished teeth, beneath sharp tongues.

One of them, perhaps the youngest among the dozen or so men, grimaces. "This is foolish," he says, his skin paler than any other. "If Kreed finds out we've just sold his only ticket into Davenport Industries, we'll all be done for."

The eldest of them shakes his fat head, flushing an embarrassed shade of vermillion. "He _won't_! He won't find out," the man assures the group, quickly addressing the situation in a fast-paced stammer. "Don't you get it? Twenty-four hours. That's enough time to grab the boy from Kreed's lab-place thing, and he won't even know what hits him until the boy is gone, disappeared!"

"The money Davenport is going to cough up is way more than what Kreed offered us," one of them quietly adds, his voice reverberating from the back of the room.

The youngest member again begins to speak up, failing in an obvious effort to bite his tongue. "But what if he finds out? What if he beats us to him —,"

The stout male frowns, crossly gnashing his teeth. "You fret too much, boy," he barks plainly, tsk'ing the singled-out man, all the while dabbing away the sweat of his brow by his loosened tie. "It isn't over until those alarms go off. You'll see.

"Everything will go according to plan."

end of: 3


	5. FOUR

**Author's Note:** Hello! So, this is the sorta-final chapter of The Quiet! While there will be an Epilogue of considerable length ( _probably_...), this is the conclusion of the main drama, with the exclusion of the aftermath. Anyways, thanks for the ride, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **FOUR:** Our Crescendo

In which: Those who do not _sleep_ are bound to confuse _reality_ and _dream_.

* * *

 _ **eleven-o-three in the evening  
**_ _Canterbury Manor, basement_

Through half-lidded hours of murky green, starlit forest, the one thing Chase can comprehend in rich, vivid clarity, is the pain.

 _Everything_ hurts. His wrists, once bound and cuffed, are no longer suspended above him, but the price he pays is steep in exchange for such a small blessing. Kreed had taken to delivering his frustrations upon Chase's semi-conscious body: parts of him sting, others burn. He is nearly positive his nose is broken in more than once place. Although the air feels vaguely like he is somewhere cool and damp, Chase has little memory of the trudge down into the dank basement, and he had long-since abandoned any attempt to peel his swollen eyes open. All that remains is gut-wrenching agony, the potent reek of his own bile, and dark.

Not much thinking can be done by a man in constant pain-driven terror, as it turns out. Occasional slivers slip past the oppressive blur of a confusing stupor, seep through incessant prayers of _they'll come for me_ and _please, just let it end_. He finds brief comfort in strange things, fragments of home or of his family. He is struck once by the thought of a song Bree favoured, back home — _Ne me quitte pas_. For a good while, Chase reflects on its lyrics in numb, silent bliss, a warmth radiating from somewhere within his chest. It is not until further contemplation, a full hour afterwards, that he grasps in total force the utter desperation of those words.

 _Ne me quitte pas_. Do not leave me.

Chase shivers.

Try so fiercely as he might to pretend it isn't true (and he _knows_ there is no sane way of phrasing it), but he sees them. In half-dreams, hallucinations — delusions of Adam, of Bree. A mirage or two of Leo. The first had been of Tasha, and it had come as a shock, in-between reverie and full consciousness, because if he were to hallucinate at all, why her? Why not Mr. Davenport, or one of his siblings? And given the fact that she had been a grown woman, and Chase a mere two feet, the dream itself had made little sense.

But nothing about anything makes any sense at all anymore, so Chase had allowed it, hazily watched as the dream unfolded.

 _Tasha pressed a smile into the tiny boy's — into Chase's — salty, tear-stricken cheek, wrapping her tight arms around his neck in a soothing embrace. Thunder cracked outside the windows of the Davenport home, rolling against the glass, striking a fear so cold into his heart that Chase felt it race._

" _It's going to be okay, little guy," she promised, her voice echoing throughout the sleeping house, chasing away every last bad thought, every flash of lightning._

And it was. It _was_ okay.

The Tasha before him then had done the same, but his wrists had swung above, so to compensate for the difference in height she'd stood on her toes, planted a kiss to his forehead. He had no longer been a toddler, quivering and frightened, but a grown boy. Broken. He hadn't even wept, but the woman had reassured him all the same.

"You're going to be just fine, Chase," she'd said, all big-boy, grown-up voice. And though the words had been spoken so gently, so calmingly, something about them had echoed in the empty darkness, a shiver creeping down, down …

A tremor had coursed through him as the tips of his sister's fingers, the nails sharp and cold, raked down his neck, his back. Just like that, Tasha had ceased to be Tasha, and so he'd seen Bree next.

Not all of her, really, but he'd caught glimpses of her in a candle's flame, her laugh in the rattling of chains. Her voice had been a sweet coo, honey-dipped poison dripping sweet, singing gently; "Oh, Chase … ," she'd begun. It had been the voice used years ago, when he was small, and she seemed older and wiser than any other child Chase had ever met. Taunting, nonchalant. Chiding; _Don't you think that whole cookie is too much? Don't you think you should just give it to me instead?_

Not-Bree had only laughed, empty now, as if she herself could see into Chase's mind without lifting a finger to crack open his skull, or anything else akin to Kreed's desperate measures. Probably, she could. "Don't you think you deserve this?" she'd asked, and Chase had nearly broken down, then and there. "Look around, little brother."

And that last phrase had echoed, reverberated within the dank space, for far too long. Little brother. Brother.

 _Brother_.

That word revived it; the lurking shadow of Adam Davenport, staring him coolly down. Close enough to touch, if either had been able. Seeing his face like that — twisted in apathy, in silent, steely disappointment, had snapped something vital within Chase.

 _Not him. Not you. Please._

He longs for them. The real, breathing things, not those shrouded in harsh eyes, low laughter. He can't help but to find the gifts of insomnia and, ultimately, the gifts of pain, to be significantly better than what awaits him later, cruel delusions and words sharper than steel. Familiar faces.

For the first time in months, though he is ashamed to say, Chase Davenport sobs aloud.

* * *

 _ **concurrent  
**_ _Davenport Mansion_

Even from a distance, Donald can pick up the sound of his daughter's breath as it leaves her lips, heaving out an unsteady sigh as impatient fingers drum against the surface of the cyberdesk. Despite her cool, bored features, creased in faux irritation, Bree's tired eyes betray her to the core; every fear, anxiety, tucked deeply into the crevices of her mind, buried beneath an exasperated exterior. Davenport can nearly see it all, glancing in her direction every now and then. His gaze falls pointedly to her erratic finger-tapping, and he opens to his mouth to comment, but before he is granted the chance Bree snatches her hands away, hides them in between the thick, poufy folds of her dark gown.

"Eurgh, where _is_ he?" she groans, idly spooling the smooth fabric in her fingers. The two have been awaiting Adam a solid twenty minutes now, and Davenport is nearly certain the delay has been doing more harm than help to Bree's slowly deteriorating resolve; "Seriously, Adam! We don't have all night."

After discovering Kreed's involvement in Chase's disappearance, Adam had insisted on waking Bree right away. A few hours had passed, stumbling over the quickest, wisest plan of action, and finally Donald had come to a decision: the gathering. As it turned out, Kreed had planned a grand, social "get-together", a party for the wealthiest of his associates, held, conveniently, in his very own estate. Tonight. (Davenport had not been invited.— he'd found an invitation left deserted, encrypted behind thick walls of code and a single subject line: _subject C_. The sender's address is a blank slate.)

It had not mattered then, hardly mattered now. Whether or not the kidnapping of _his youngest son_ is entirely coincidental or not to fall within the same date, Donald has no clue. What he does know for certain is that the cancellation of such an anticipated event would, without a doubt, humiliate Kreed's status, at the bare minimum. If not arise terrible suspicions. If Chase is still somewhere inside the house, Davenport is positive _this_ is the smartest strategy. Giving Canterbury his most optimistic benefit of the doubt, all the while.

Bree looks as though she is going to complain once more when finally Adam scuffles in, his features reflecting their own unique brand of bitter. His suit, a matching dark by every inch, befits him well, but (what is supposed to be) a vibrant tie is crumpled loosely around his neck, a mess of crimson spilling over his shoulders. For a moment, it almost looks like blood against his skin, an illusion likely cast by Donald's sleep-deprived delirium.

" _Finally_ ," Bree breathes, rising shakily to a standing position. She wobbles a bit in heels, but manages to pass her brother a chip of metal, frowning as he presses it onto his nape. Neither of them activate their cybermasks right away, but Adam again begins fumbling with his necktie, crossly mumbling his retort.

"I wouldn't have taken so long, if it hadn't been for this stupid thing," says Adam, decidedly giving up to verbalise his frustrations.

Bree shakes her head, nearing him. "Like a shoelace, remember?— like _this_ … ," And Donald watches as her deft fingers stretch upwards, knotting the crimson strip of fabric with ease. Just like that, the ensemble is complete. The two are a pair of shadows: Adam, hard and lean, donning the all-black tux, a deep crimson bowtie — and Bree. All silk, all diamonds, all everything. An expensive watch glistens from Adam's wrist.

Something inside of Donald aches. The formal attire looks all too out-of-place on their teenage faces, and each of them strike him as years older than they'd been only a half-week prior, when this whole mess had begun. Yet — watching them now, the best versions of themselves: strong, determined, prepared to plunge into the belly of the beast … It gives Donald Davenport the long-craved burst of energy, of adrenaline, that every inch of his fatigued body and mind have needed.

"Are we ready?" asks Bree, inhaling what seems to be the final breath of peace for hours to come. Her anxious, resolute gaze flickers briefly upwards, firmly meeting that of her father's.

Donald nods. "Almost," he says, his own eyes carefully falling upon the small chips of metal on their necks. "Go ahead and activate your cybermasks."

He watches as the pair does as told, watches as Bree's fair features sharpen and narrow, as Adam's dark locks brighten to a glossy strawberry-blonde. When the process is finished, the two individuals that stand before him are genetic opposites of the Adam and Bree he knows. They look older, too — years older, and the unease slowly solidifying in his gut diminishes considerably.

"Good," says Davenport, folding his arms across his chest in an effort to appear sturdier, bolder in his confidence. It seems to have its intended effect as the tension in Adam's shoulders visibly relaxes, Bree's edgy demeanor ebbing into conviction. "And if you find him . . . ," Donald begins, but his voice wavers and he swallows around the thick knot clotting in his throat. " _When_ you find him, be sure to turn them _off_."

Both of them nod firmly, but for a moment, Donald swears he catches a distinct glimmer of mischief in not-Adam's new grey eyes, and he considers the possibility that he'd imagined it before Adam suddenly waggles his eyebrows, entwines his fingers with the delicate, soft silk of Bree's gloved hand.

"Shall we?" he teases, and though his voice is considerably different, something about it is unmistakably Adam. His lips hint at a subtle, reassuring smirk, and he finishes with a sly, "Madam?"

Although she looks vaguely more herself, Bree's face burns with humiliation. "You have got to be kidding me," she hisses, and at once the anxiety creeping up the back of Donald Davenport's throat melts away as quickly as snow.

 _This ends tonight_ , he tells himself firmly. _Chase is coming home tonight._

* * *

 _ **approximately midnight  
**_ _Canterbury Manor, basement_

It feels like months before Kreed Canterbury finally snaps. It's as though he has been waning ever since Chase's arrival; a flurry of furious blades against his chest, a series of blows landing — _cracking_ against his skull. But after so long, Kreed's seething wrath nicks into stone, a perfectly vacant expression with solid ice in place of eyes, a thin crease where a mouth should be. Lips that ought to be peeled over like a dog's snarl, rather than pressed together into an infuriating, uninterested frown.

They burn him. Although he can never clearly see what it is that melts flesh from muscle, boils the blood from his body, Chase likes to imagine the eyes of Kreed Canterbury igniting the back of his torso. Eyes bubbling over in rage, indignation, in _choler._ It seems easier to pretend hatred fuels every breath that leaves his body than to picture what stoicism he knows lies truly behind him, fingers bruising his pale skin to purple and heat searing his neck. The sizzle that echoes within the damp air rings in Chase's ears for hours afterwards.

At some point, Chase had become so sick of staring into stone eyes, the silent contemplation cold on Kreed's lips, that he somehow found the daring to spit saliva directly in Canterbury's face. He'd hoped to invoke wrath, the fury that had previously plagued his actions, _anything_ — but what followed had been only the sound of laughter resonating behind him, a bored expression, and the shimmer of a silken crimson handkerchief as Kreed Canterbury dried the spittle slowly dribbling down his chin.

He'd plunged the knife in his hands into the muscle adorning Chase's collar, and when the throaty screams tearing through his body finally dissolved, Kreed had frowned. Chase can still hear the words in the back of his head.

 _See this?_ he'd asked, and centimeter by centimeter, he deliberately twisted the blade, until he was certain Chase had felt every rip and slit and tear of the shredded flesh. _You bleed as red as everybody else does._

 _I'm going to drain that arrogance dry from your body._

Perhaps he had. Chase can hardly tell anymore. There is no science behind their work, no attempt to bury sin beneath the guise of experimentation. Nothing but brutal, apathetic agony, steel and dread. No precaution is ever taken to carefully disinfect his wounds, no effort to wrap him neatly in gauze and say, wryly, "see you tomorrow, sport", as Miss Dahlia and the whitecoats had sometimes done, decades ago. In its stead, Chase is left to rot alive, and black eats at him from the inside, out.

It ends abruptly. One moment, Kreed is there; immaculate, cleanly shaven — his aged body even looks like it is donning dismembered pieces of a tuxedo, a half-ensemble of something more than formal. The next thing Chase knows, the man is in disarray, slivers of thinning hair pinned to his forehead by the aftermath of perspiration and rage alone. Chase stares through hazy eyes at the untucked tail of Kreed Canterbury's shirt as his shadow recedes, disappears up the flight of stairs flooding breaths of light into the hollowing, vacant space.

It is the final image of the man Chase burns to memory, before the crimson flames lancing pain throughout his wounded shoulder put him to rest.

* * *

 _ **concurrent  
**_ _Canterbury Manor, ground floor_

Entrance comes easily; Adam is silent as he listens to Bree rattle off the names of two wealthy executives flown in from Canada, a pair of stolen identities Davenport had promised them would be on the list pinned to some bouncer's clipboard. A flip of Bree's dark locks — _do you have_ any _idea who we are? —_ is all it takes to dissipate any residual skepticism, and the guard idly waves them inside the shimmering pale light of a too-large, too-fancy mansion. The sound of Adam's pumping heart rings in his ears as he passes the threshold.

They stare. Neither of them can help to, despite Davenport's urge for them to be in and out as quickly as possible. The sight inside knocks the breath from their lungs for a moment — bright lights and dribbling candles and roses tipped in golden. The sheer quantity of arrogant, filthy-rich faces and extended pinkies alone is enough to stop Adam dead in his tracks.

"Show offs," Bree scoffs beneath her breath, and Adam can practically hear her green eyes rolling in the tone of her voice. Before Adam can force himself to tear his gaze away, she gently tugs the cuff of his sleeve. "Come on."

The two of them press further into the room, weaving in and out of clusters of women in blinding jewelry and men doused in overwhelming cologne. It takes a moment for him to pick up on individual conversation amidst the collective hum, but every now and then he manages to decipher scattered bits and pieces of speech; " _. . . incredibly sophisticated technology . . ._ " Adam hears a man say, an indiscernible look on his face. A lady in white some feet to his left mumbles over a glass of sparkling wine, " _. . . can you believe it?_ " she asks, a southern accent as thick as molasses on her lips." _I mean, the utter audacity. And that's just the starting bid! How much can a robot teenager possibly be worth?_ "

His heart skips a beat. Brother and sister lock eyes, and even beneath a cyber mask, Adam can read them as easily as Chase can read a book. Those eyes mean fear, mean something bad. He swallows thickly. "What's happening?" Adam mouths, doing his damnedest to look like Bree, a person who seems as though she belongs in a place like this, cool and flashy and lifted nose.

"They're auctioning Davenport's technology, Adam," she patiently explains, voice a low hiss. Her tone sounds angry, and suddenly Adam is angry, too. "They're selling Chase like property."

Around him, locks of chestnut-like hair catch his eye from every angle, and quietly Adam knits his brows in concentration, trying to recall the image shown to them just an hour earlier. _Too lanky; … too fair. Too short. Too —_

"There," Adam suddenly breathes, sliding his arm between the slender wrist of Bree. She lifts her gaze, studying a tall, even-shouldered male from across the room. Curling brown hair. Fancy-pants attire. Blue eyes. — Check, check, _check_.

From his side, Bree frowns. "At least he's cute."

"Come on," mocks Adam, pulling them closer. Bree's slowed pace reminds him to retain enough of a distance that the boy would not easily notice them. They fall into line behind a young couple with taut smiles, hidden enough to see and not be seen. "That's him, right?"

"That's him," Bree confirms with a nod. "Kreed Canterbury's one and only. If anyone, aside from Kreed himself, knows where Chase is, it's him."

Silently, Adam studies him, as the two make their way across the floor in an awkward half-waltz. None of them ever imagined such a full crowd would be attending, and now, forced to sway and weave between couples dancing and festering, suddenly Adam can feel the back of his neck heat, slicken with concern. How are they supposed to get this guy _alone_?

Before Adam can even begin to theorize some plan of action, a response comes in the form of Bree collapsing, all at once. She falls into his shoulders, wraps her arms around his neck and presses a voice against his ear: _I_ ' _ve got a plan_ , she promises, barely a whisper. Her lips skim his skin.

Taken by surprise, Adam untangles their limbs, somewhat clumsily steadying her by elbow; as though Bree were simply another giggling, idle woman with far too much wine at her fingertips— and at once he understands. She stumbles, and Adam follows, allowing Bree to fumble over herself while still supporting a great deal of her weight. She laughs, noisily, beckoning the attention of more than one onlooker, including that of their current target. Adam's heart quickens in steady, silent triumph, and the moment his eyes meet those of _Kreed Canterbury Jr._ , he forces himself to reflect a face of bemused concern, of not-quite-abstinence himself.

"Excuse me," calls Adam, before the male has any chance to turn. He coughs a chuckle, short, allows Bree to wrap her arms around his neck to keep herself standing. He clears his throat; it is the quickest Adam can remember ever thinking on his feet, and still he struggles for words. "Would you mind showing us to a, uh, restroom?"

Bree's eyes brighten with a lazy, drunken exterior, and a loose-fitting smile slides between her painted lips. "Please?" she drawls, the word like a kiss on the air, cherry-red and sweet.

He buys it. Canterbury's son, an eerily familiar face flashing white teeth, nods his head slow and cool. "Of course," says the male, looking quietly perplexed through that nervous, uncomfortable smile. Smitten, even. " _I'll_ take you."

Adam shuffles in line beside his sister, exchanging private glimpses of identical frowns behind the stranger's turned back. Bree's heels tap against glossy tile with every step they take, and as the boy leads them out of the dancing hall, the droll hum of impolite, polite conversation recedes seamlessly into the silent empty of the lengthy, winding corridors behind them. Adam almost shivers.

Bree is swift. Not a moment before or after they are perfectly far enough from earshot, Kreed Canterbury's son is pinned against a large portrait of a blushing woman, his tan cheeks echoing in contrast to the lady's fair skin. He does not look surprised, but when Bree mumbles something about _security_ and how much faster she is than any man breathing, the male shrivels in his own misfortune, trying in vain to appear smaller, less of a threat.

Adam sees through it, and Bree (stunningly beautiful, _smart_ Bree) sees it through. "I want to know where you sick pigs are keeping Chase," she hisses, and Adam swears for a moment his sister might genuinely break the boy's wrist before the night's end. Or more. "What did you do with my brother?"

He shakes his head, or otherwise tears his face away to no longer feel the warmth of Bree's wrath seeping into his skin. Whichever the case, her gaze remains headstrong on him when he speaks;

"You're crazy," —choked out, spoken like disbelief, disconcertion. "Chase Davenport as you knew him is dead."

And Adam's throat goes suddenly dry, suddenly in knots. Dead? _Then… why…_

He watches as Bree digs her nails, each painted a shade of glittering vermilion, into the boy's wrist. He mistakes, for a moment, crimson in place of blood as she gnashes her teeth. "I don't _care_ ," spits Bree, staring ice, fire into his eyes. " _What did you do with my brother?_ "

* * *

 _ **hours earlier  
**_ _Canterbury Corp. research facility_

" _Everything will go according to plan."_

The eyes of the Class — once as the great Phoenix, known and revered now as only aging greys in suits — drift to scuffed leather shoes and strikingly, blindingly white tile as they seethe; moping, stewing in bitter juices.

In the end, not much at all had gone _according to plan_. They'd been duped. Hoodwinked. Cheated. The eldest of them had claimed a bit ago, sitting upon his cracked leather throne, there would be dear consequences to pay; but he never specifies what these may be, or whom is to pay them. The others rarely bother to ask, and this is no special occasion. Most of them had known from the very beginning, from the very moment Kreed Canterbury had approached and offered them the opportunity to hit Donald Davenport Industries where it _hurt_ , that it was, in hindsight, a very shady proposition. But who cared?— by ever-dwindling numbers, money is a persuasive tool, and with an added bonus of knocking Davenport down a few notches? The decision had been obvious. Easy, even.

Except. At the lab, at the facility with its white walls and white floors and spilt milk, Kreed hadn't coughed up the dough. And that, naturally, could not be allowed to stand. With Chase _literally_ at their fingertips, … why _not_ just take him? It had seemed as though it were a scheme flawless in concoction, aside from a few (minor) protests from lower-class Class members ( _Cowardice_ , if you were to ask its eldest, _Cowardice, plain and simple_ ).

Still, it had only seemed that way, as it turns out. A tripwire, a hidden camera, — who knows? — but somehow, someway, Kreed Canterbury had found them out, and alarms rang like a swan song throughout the sterile castle. They'd been beaten at their own game. Chase Davenport had been stolen from beneath their noses.

And they know, too: Chase Davenport is being auctioned off _tonight_ , as had been Kreed's devious plot all along. What use would he have of him now? After all, they'd practically handed over every detail of a bionic superhuman's schematics, every tolerance level and skill and skin and thought. Kreed Canterbury will have fled the country by sunrise, and that breathtakingly powerful, itty-bitty chip along with him.

The Class hates itself for it. Even now, as they seethe and mope and stew, they mutter on the idiocy of the scheme, of their own daft arrogance. A few of them exchange insults, empty threats; but the evening finishes as the morning began, one goal clinging to their fine collars and flashing cuffs—

They leave an anonymous invitation in the SPAM folder of Donald Davenport's inbox. Encrypt it, if only for their own pleasure, its satirical poetry. They provide a little tip, nothing else.

If they cannot have Chase Davenport, they decide, then neither would Kreed.

* * *

 _ **present  
**_ _Canterbury manor, ground floor / basement_

Though his brother could be lost within seconds, a life or death situation hanging in jeopardy, Adam Davenport does not think about his actions before doing them (or, maybe it is because of that thought that he is less inclined to do so). By the time he realizes Bree has been left behind, that he has no clue just where to go from there, he has already made his way through several corridors, his body working against his mind to move, move, _move_.

Bree is a big girl. Bree is more than capable of handling herself, he decides. The moment that boy had coughed up where Chase is being held, dragging along Bree hadn't even occurred to him. He'd bolted down the corridor without looking back. A brief needle of guilt pokes at Adam's chest.

Doesn't matter. Bree is faster, though — she'd call Davenport, too, probably; and Chase will be just fine. _Has_ to be just fine. Adam just needs to _find him_.

By some miracle, dumb luck alone, he finds a staircase quicker than he could have hoped; a spiraling thing gleaming beneath a lit chandelier, carrying upwards and downwards at the same time. Adam nearly falls flat down them, his feet thudding against every other step as he sprints, practically throwing himself down the flight. Halfway through, he realises he has no clue what exactly to expect by the time he reaches their end, but his muscles are working faster than his head, at this point — little difference than normal, he would wager. He at least manages to recall something Davenport had said to them about the cybermask cool on his face — _be sure to turn them_ off, he'd muttered. Adrenaline rushes to the tips of his fingers as he presses them to the switch glued to his neck, swallowed by the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd been built with speed over strength; or brain over brawn.

At least for a moment or two. The locked door at the bottom of the staircase is irritating, above anything else. The doorknob breaks off in Adam's palm and wooden shards shatter with a single kick.

He finds his baby brother on the floor. Still.

Adam's heart stops dead in his chest. _Chase isn't moving_ — Chase. Isn't. Moving. It sounds like a mantra in his head, thudding over and over again, like someone else pounding it through his skull. It ends only when he stumbles closer, blinks through the light bleeding in from upstairs to see Chase's eyes twitch beneath lids, his chest waning with a living, breathing struggle. A great weight lifts from Adam's lungs.

"Chase?" he calls out, a tentative whisper barely passing his lips. Chase doesn't move. Adam clears his throat, tries again; "Chase. … Can you hear me?" Shuffling nearer, Adam's gaze drifts, evaluating every injury on his brother's already-thinning torso. His skin looks yellower than normal — _is_ it normal? The basement's lighting weakens as he moves further from the door, and peering through the darkness, Adam can barely make out his brother's eyes when they finally dart awake.

"Adam?"

Chase's voice sounds, certainly, a little worse for wear. He chokes out a cough, a wheeze, as though the shock of seeing Adam Davenport is too much for his throat to handle. He seems positively frozen, suspended between disbelief and terror. A moment afterwards, oddly, and Adam watches as his brother's tense body suddenly gives out beneath him, a mere dream cut short by waking. As though he isn't troubled by Adam's appearance, not excited or even relieved.

Adam's heart sinks. "Chase— we should get … out … ," he tries, but either Chase does not hear him or disregards what he says. Adam's head goes blank, stupid to the Chase before him and, Jesus, _why isn't he doing anything?_ He is about to hurl Chase out of there himself before his brother finally speaks.

"I'm scared, Adam," he breathes, his cracking voice resonating throughout the damp chamber like the broken echo of a person that once was. He says it like Adam isn't there, somehow; like a deep, dark secret he'd get off his chest before the end. His brown eyes are again closed, seconds away from falling under. Seconds away from the painless, blissful dark of sleep. "I've never been this scared before in my life."

— And, just like that, Adam's blood boils from beneath his skin.

* * *

 _ **concurrent  
**_ _Canterbury manor, basement_

The reek of rust and mildew are fresh on his tongue, stale air choking out his lungs, and at once Chase wishes he were not awake. A deep cough rattles through his torso, aches in his ribcage and stings in his throat. He grimaces; distantly, he can recall a period of time in which he would shudder to think of showing any kind of pain, physical or not, in Adam Davenport's presence. Perhaps he still would, but.

This is not Adam Davenport, he reminds himself. This is a phony. A mind game. Unkind and harsh, but a mind game all the same. Maybe the worst of them yet, given the way his heart had quickened, and his hands had stung with exhilaration — with _hope_.

The dankness of cellar hadn't tasted quite so bitter until now. Chase squeezes his throbbing eyes closed, blocks out the ghost of his brother and begs for unconsciousness to come again. The air seems to slow against his skin, the world dimming into a thick haze; from the ground, Chase's arms are semi-extended upwards, as though he cannot remember if he's still hanging above from leather or iron or rope. For a moment, Chase is certain the only living, breathing person inside the dark room is the not-Adam Davenport hovering silently above him — _silently! what further proof does he need that this is a fake?_

Chase's shoulders tense beneath the harsh eyes he knows stares idly down at him, blinking through dark lashes and furrowed brows. He forces himself to keep his own closed, comfortingly blind in the low light; maybe if he ignores the dream, the nightmare, eventually Adam will leave him, as Adam is so wont to do.

When he speaks, his brother's voice sounds like it is choked out of a sore throat, a knot swelling in his chest.

"Come on, Chasey," says not-Adam, his low, urgent tone bitterly, painfully gentle. "We have to – u-uh, we've gotta _go_ , okay? Chase?"

For a moment, Chase is tempted to comply; the possibility of crawling home, collapsing on the sofa and waking up to petty bickering, or burnt sausage, or a _playful_ punch to his gut — seems impossibly wholesome, utter perfection. Perhaps if he returns to the sight of the nightmare, he decides, he'd wake up.

But.

He can still picture the mirage of Adam Davenport, dark and lean, creeping closer to his shriveled form in the damp darkness: _"C'mon, little bro," the ghost of his brother hummed, a wild grin smeared across his cheeky features. And Chase was granted no time at all to prepare himself before a foot was buried into his stomach, the steel toes of a mission boot finding a solid home between his ribcage and groin.— "Up and at 'em. Ha, ha – get it, Chasey? Up and Adam?" And he'd gnashed his teeth  
_ _and licked his lips  
_ _and grinned._

And he'd sounded so, so real; realer than he does now. But Chase had told himself that even submerged neck-deep in his worst nightmare, Adam would never do anything to seriously, lethally injure him. And then he _had_. So how, Chase asks to no one, how can this illusion of him be any different? How can this be any less of a fake?

When Adam brushes his hand along Chase's naked shoulder, he doesn't budge. Barely even flinches. _Leave me alone, Adam_ , he hisses to himself, and it is not until his brother shakes his head that he realises he'd spoken aloud.

"No can do," Chase hears him say, and before he finds the strength to roll over on the cool, filthy ground, to block Adam out entirely, he hears the ghost mutter something beneath its breath in his brother's voice. After a moment, the room blurring in colour and light and shape, Chase becomes dimly aware of his older brother dropping a heavy blanket across his lower body. The fabric feels foreign in his hands, a cool smoothness coiled beneath his fingers. _Not a blanket_ , he realises. A jacket, a _blazer_ , and desperately Chase grapples to understand.

Why is Adam Davenport wearing a _bowtie_?

"Let's get you home."

It takes ten breathless seconds for Chase to register the words. Then; "What?" he says, dumbly, numbly. He has not felt this alert in weeks, and yet still, his mind now is frantic to respond. _Fake, fake, fake_ , he tells himself, begs himself to understand, to keep his hopes low, low, low.

Adam does not feel fake when his arms slide beneath him, as easily as they have a thousand times in the past (easier, even), and without a prayer Chase instinctively braces himself to be hurled across the room or into the solid ground beneath them. Instead Adam tilts him down, and by the time Chase remembers to _open his eyes_ , he realises his brother is steeling him to stand.

Bad, bad decision, he decides, but somehow the two of them make it work: Adam drapes Chase's arms around across his neck, slides his own beneath Chase's potentially-shattered ribcage, surprisingly aversive of each wound. Probably, Chase would think, it would be easier for Adam to carry him like a doll. Perhaps he'd chosen to spare him the humiliation, or Chase isn't as bad off as he'd first thought. Neither thought is particularly comforting, somehow; it feels like a joke with a bad punchline when Adam tentatively asks, "Can you walk?"

Chase blinks, slow. "What?" he repeats, though he had heard his brother's raspy voice clearly enough. "I— I don't know."

Timidly, he allows Adam to take a deliberate step forward, half-carrying and half-guiding him towards the exit. Chase nearly collapses, grunting with the effort, and an overwhelming nausea washes over him. Sweat pricks at his temple, but somehow, Adam manages to steady him before he retches or blacks out or both. A sudden regret seeds into the pit of his stomach, although Chase cannot quite place why. Black presses in on his vision.

"How is he?"

A woman's voice makes Chase go cold in Adam's arms. He is reminded of the hating lady, _Miss Dahlia_ , and for a moment, for dizziness or lack of blood or exhaustion, he mistakes one for the other. But Adam seems to relax above him, as though the woman is some answer to a prayer — and now, Chase realises, he has gone limp, supported upright by the single arm Adam has wrapped around his torso. At once, he snaps alert from the position, but one of his legs has gone bad, so his weight shifts to his right. Chase chokes out the salt of bile from his lips, whatever was left in his stomach, and by the time the lights blinking before his eyes fade away, Adam has given up his attempt to keep Chase standing. He lifts him into the air, like a bride.

Whoever had spoken, now has her answer.

Adam makes a noise that sounds like a grunt, a deep thing that resonates in his throat. "Not good," he says, as though he needs to put it into words. Then, after a moment, "Bree, your mask."

 _Huh?_

Chase forces his vision awake, dull and clouded, and at last his weary gaze falls upon his sister, her fingers brushing across her skin to the switch on her nape. He draws in a sharp breath, and suddenly he is certain this relief, this rescue, is a mind trick, after all; because Bree herself looks like a dream— barefoot, oddly, but enveloped in a beautiful, dark gown shimmering like black ice, silk gloves pulled to her elbows. Semiconscious, but blinking dark eyes all the same, Chase thinks to himself that the stars have been stolen from the sky and now are twinkling in the diamonds adorning her neck.

Chase decides then this must be the cruelest trick of them all. "Beautiful," he mumbles, the syllables stumbling on his tongue. Even later he will not be sure why he says it, but it feels, strangely, like a suitable final thing for him to impart upon them. Last words, like something poetic. Something Shakespearean, he thinks, dryly; " – beautiful."

He watches, dimly, as Bree's features seem to fight between a frown and a slack-jawed expression. "He really _is_ delirious," she says at last.

Chase thinks Adam's chest might be bobbing in something akin to laughter. "We should go," he says, trying to sound urgent, leader-like, as though the three of them being together is not enough to warrant idle small-talk. Chase thinks it could be.

"I called Davenport," he can hear Bree's voice say. She sounds less apprehensive, almost. Relieved. "They're — they're coming. It's almost over."

"Not yet," says Adam stiffly, his stare heavy, and it is the most serious tone Chase has ever heard on Adam's mouth. Bree must feel the same, because she nods, and the two of them support his weight as they work clumsily up the massive, spiraling staircase. Halfway through, Chase feels in danger of falling unconscious (for how many times, now? three, maybe four?), when Adam huffs through the sweat clinging to his skin, "Where's Kreed?"

Chase swallows, closes his eyes as his forehead knocks softly against Bree's shoulder. "I don't know," he says at last. His temples thud against his eyelids as he tries in vain to recall, but it isn't as though Kreed had been much of a talker. He seemed to shut up the moment Chase had begun to crave the sound of a voice, real or not. "He was so angry."

At his side, Bree's lips loosen into a grin, and before Chase has the chance to ask what can _possibly be so funny_ , she says, "He's about to get a _lot_ angrier."

As if that were some cue, on the floor nearest to them, Chase can distinguish the unmistakable clamour of heavy boots — loads of them — thudding above. He jolts slightly, willing his vision to focus as they clamber up the last of the staircase.

"What's going on?" asks Chase, his heart already hammering in his chest. An unsteady throb ripples across his torso, the chaos flaring in shards of glass and panic-driven, shifty green eyes. For the nth time that night, Chase's stomach lurches and his vision goes slack, a dull ring echoing in his ears. "Is it Kreed's security?"

He feels his sister shake her head at his side, tangled tendrils of curled coffee mattered by sweat or blood or both. Bree seems more at ease, calmer than Adam. Calmer than Chase. "No," she breathes; slowly, and Chase makes an effort to match her gentle inhale, easy exhale. "No, it's Davenport. Look."

Chase does look. No longer do men in heavy black roam the corridors, a perfect empty canvas of dark, and in their place ordinary men sort through the crowd, distinguish threat for harmless. By the time the three of them reach a banquet hall, its great golden arches spanning the length of the corridor, Chase can just make out the face of a young man — _the_ young boy he'd met his first moments on the property — be led aside in handcuffs. For a moment, Chase wonders if those plastic toy soldiers had even been real, or yet another mind trick to keep his thoughts scrambling. _Eerily uniform_ , he'd thought. _Eerily static._

Donald Davenport's security wears no uniform but slick, dark coats, a bulletproof vest every here and there. They look like everyday citizens, in slacks and too-large sweaters. A window nearby depicts a night as deep as — well, night, but through the adjacent darkness he can make out the silhouette of a canopy of oaks and an expanse of rolling dark hill. In the pressing dusk, that endless, immaculate green lawn now looks like a raging sea of lonely, waves of flowing ink. Suddenly the cleanliness, perfection of the manor makes his skin crawl.

Bree's hours of tired, foggy coffee fix upon Adam. "You know what to do?" she asks, her arms shifting to wrap around Chase's torso tighter, rather than drifting along his shoulders as Adam bore the bulk of his weight. Adam nods, slowly, and Bree tucks away a stray curl from her face. "Good," says their sister, giving each of them a little squeeze. "It's all going to be fine. We're all together now."

 _Poor choice of words_ , Chase thinks to himself, and the two of them watch as Adam's shadow slides into the heart of the chaos. He stares until his brother is no longer distinguishable from one suit-and-tie, to the next. Briefly, Chase wants to turn on Bree, demand to know where Adam is headed, why Adam is leaving, but the nervous sigh that leaves her lips tells him all he needs to know: he's gone to find Kreed, and they are not.

The words force their way past his lips, anyways; "Where are we going?"

"We're leaving," says Bree, sternly. He must look as defiant as he feels, the refusal already rolling off the back of his tongue, because his sister cuts him off, gives his shoulders a tentative shake. "Chase, you are going to _die_ if we don't get outside and on Davenport's helicopter, you get it? You're going to bleed to death in this stupid mansion on this stupid hill unless we _go._ Right. _Now._

"Chase?"

Dumbly, he nods his heavy head, the tension aching in his shoulders, his chest. "I hear you," he says, promises. "Let's go."

He and Bree stumble then, work cautiously through the security and frantic fancy faces, as they head towards the entrance — towards the exit. The wound in Chase's collar (the worst, draining everything from his body), seems to seize with every step, every inch closer to freedom, as if begging him to slow, to lie down, to stay put.

( _Almost there_ , says Bree, and Chase is not sure if it is indeed Bree Davenport, or that person's ghost.)

Bree reaches the door first, because their limbs are awkward and Chase's, limp. She holds one arm to him, wrapped beneath his good set of ribs, and the other pries the grandeur doors away from their hinges.

 _Unlocked_ , Chase realises, as the sweet, cool breath of the night falls over him, _like a cage with a carefully made mistake._

It feels too easy, too perfect to be true, he thinks. But, then again, so does she.

* * *

 _ **concurrent  
**_ _Canterbury manor, elsewhere_

Adam plunges further into the swiveling mass with his head throbbing unsteadily, stomach still reeling from the stiff stench of Chase on his clothes. The sharp iron fuels every step, speeds his pace until Adam realises he is moving too quickly to spot Kreed Canterbury in the crowd.

He doesn't expect to find him downstairs, somehow. When Adam asks a nearby man in a blue vest, his forehead glistening from the work of directing traffic here or there, he remarks absentmindedly; _If your guy is here, we'll find him_. Then, _Now beat it, kid. Want me to cuff you, too?_ So Adam moves away, moves on, but the dull ringing in his head doesn't subside as he pushes through the polished, nauseous corridors. He finds the main staircase, finds its rail, and starts upwards on the massive sliding steps. He relishes the sweat on his temple, the ache of his muscles clambering swiftly upwards, but Adam is not Bree. Not Chase. Either would have been quicker to find Kreed, easier to outsmart him, but Adam is too slow to carry out Chase in time, too dull to navigate twisting corners and bending corridors.

But this, maybe. This he can do — _pains_ to do, those aching muscles burning to move, throw, hit, choke. Kill.

He stops. Maybe he isn't so cut out for this, after all, thinks Adam. _If your guy is here_ , the man had said, _we'll find him_. Is that true? Should he turn back, turn to Bree, to Chase — _run_? He quivers at the thought, but another part of him, a worse taste in his mouth, refuses; _No, no. Don't you see?— Something has to be done._ You _have to do_ something.

Adam climbs the final step, the final stretch, and then there he is. Just like that.

As plain as day.

Kreed Canterbury.

Adam does not hesitate to question it. Never before has he seen the man's face, but his suit is rich and garnished in blatant crimson ink, and all at once there is no mistaking it, within arm's reach — he knows.

And so does Kreed know, too, because they make eye contact and suddenly there is a gun trained on Adam's chest, the slick barrel as black as oil, unmistakable in the low light. Kreed Canterbury's trembling hands hesitate, and Adam watches the sick thing's neck bob like an apple caught in its throat. "I was just leaving, Mr. Davenport," it says. "Move aside."

Adam does not; but he flinches, and Kreed's temper flairs. "You are not so indestructible," he sneers, voice all ice and calm, but dried spittle clings to his collar. "You're _outdated_ , Adam Davenport. Obsolete. Step aside; it does not take a bullet to make your kind bleed.

"I should know."

 _Pop._

The bullet grazes his shoulder when Adam's fist gives into a sick crunch on Kreed's jaw; but Adam Davenport does not act out of sheer brain, or crackling speed. Just brawn, brawn, brawn. His vision blurs red, and by the time the adrenaline rushing through his body stills enough for him to think, to _see_ , Kreed Canterbury is on the floor clutching an unhinged, shattered jaw. Adam watches as he chokes, sputters through the blood staining his teeth and reels.

The gun clatters to the ground, skids across the floor, but its echo remains ringing in the empty hallway. And suddenly Adam is scrambling, drilling his shin into the pistol's barrel and sending it far, far away.

His shoulder bleeds as he falls, too; rounds of clumsy, clamouring footsteps screeching nearby. His head is faint, but it feels like a victory when someone shakes him and says, "Don't pass out on us, kid.

"We're gonna get you home in just a minute."

* * *

 _ **two fifty-three in the morning  
**_ _away_

The helicopter is no cheap thing; it moves silently throughout the night, trades the noisy drumming of its wings in for a soft hum of blades, piercing the sky with ease and gliding gently over seas and trees and homes. Donald hadn't thought much of its silence, upon design — an extra bonus, a luxury he could afford and so he did, easy-peasy.

He thinks differently now. Although he feels certain the three unconscious teens in the back would sleep cleanly through a tsunami, the absence of an incessant, pounding whirl above eases his nerves, stills his spinning head. It'd been difficult to peel his eyes away from them, staring at each of his children's rising and falling chest, but Chase (tucked gently between the two of them) hadn't exactly been anything to waste time over. Leo (another difficult, stubborn thing) had promised to watch over them as Davenport flies, and picturing those heavy, tired brown eyes gazing intently into their sleeping faces calms Donald down, too.

Not too far, anymore. His chest flutters, like a child in grade school, at the thought. Home. Chase in their arms. They'd got him back. They'd won. For the first time in a long time, Donald Davenport no longer feels afraid.

Of course, Chase will require immediate attention as soon as the copter touches ground. His capsule can provide a full report, but a quick evaluation of the kid's injuries had been enough to let Davenport know things aren't great. Lacerations, blistered burns scabbed over and cut open again. A dislocated shoulder and leg broken at least twice. He grimaces at the thought of Adam holding his brother down as Donald sets it.

His stomach sinks again. He'd been kept practically on the brink of death over a petty squabble. And it's _his own father's fault_.

Bree seems alright, but Adam'll need the wound in his shoulder checked out. And all three — _four_ , counting Leo — who knows how long it'll take to truly recover? from something as sick as this? Already it feels like a dark stain on the family's past, another inky blight on an otherwise _ideal_ family, but any of his children would disagree and he knows it. This is a victory, they'd tell him. Even Chase, ever the realist, would say, "We won."

Davenport reminds himself to relax. They're safe and sound, safe and together. And not one would allow this to define them. He shouldn't, either.

And Kreed is gone. Another victory, another victim. He'd swindled his way so close, so near to _beating_ them, that a chill slides down the back of Davenport's spine. He'd lied so easily, and with the Class so perfectly in the dark, the game had almost ended then and there. The members had merely been pawns in Canterbury's greedy game, and _so were you, Donnie_. _So were you._

Its ending now feels anticlimactic. Quiet, like the absence of hum resonating, screaming around him. But Davenport cannot complain. The silence is a good omen, maybe. A happy ending.

Unbearably tired, too. Tired above all.

Languid eyes steer clear of each star, his jaw cracking with a yawn as they drift along an inky sea. And tomorrow will come, Davenport decides. The sun will rise, and the quiet, somehow, will vanish in its cool golden flush.

Just like that.

end of: 4

* * *

 _i'd rather be spitting blood and  
_ _i'd rather be black and blue and  
_ _i'd rather have broken bones.  
_ _anything hurts less than_ the quiet _._


End file.
